


An Unexpected Blow

by cwmilton



Category: Emma (2020), Emma (TV 2009), Emma - Jane Austen
Genre: Amnesia, Backstory, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Idiots in Love, Mistaken Identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:55:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 47,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27549457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cwmilton/pseuds/cwmilton
Summary: Mr. Knightley's memory is impacted after a fall from his horse during a dangerous dash through the rain. He must reacquaint himself with his friends, family, and neighbors in order to strengthen his mind. Emma dreads making a new first impression on her oldest and dearest friend, but does not know what he will think of her when he remembers her unforgivable behavior on Box Hill.
Relationships: George Knightley/Emma Woodhouse
Comments: 269
Kudos: 482





	1. Chapter I

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! This is a story I've been writing and rewriting for sometime. It's still unfinished, but I hope that by starting to post it, I'll get the determination I need to complete the story. The premise is a little over-the-top, but it gives Mr. Knightley and Emma all sorts of new opportunities to be ridiculous and infatuated around each other. I have tried to be somewhat accurate in how amnesia is described, treated, and resolved. 
> 
> I've always been intrigued by Mr. Knightley's backstory-- his character when he was younger, why he remains unmarried-- and this story allows me to explore that without leaving Emma out of the picture. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy it! And I would love your feedback and thoughts on where you'd like to see this go.

> "In the hope of diverting her father's thoughts from the disagreeableness of Mr. Knightley's going to London; and going so suddenly; and going on horseback, which she knew would be all very bad; Emma communicated her news of Jane Fairfax, and her dependence on the effect was justified; it supplied a very useful check,—interested, without disturbing him. He had long made up his mind to Jane Fairfax's going out as governess, and could talk of it cheerfully, but Mr. Knightley's going to London had been an unexpected blow."
> 
> \- _Emma,_ Vol III, Chapter IX
> 
> "'I dare say,” replied Mrs. Weston, smiling, “that I thought so _then_ ;—but since we have parted, I can never remember Emma's omitting to do any thing I wished.'
> 
> 'There is hardly any desiring to refresh such a memory as _that_ ,'—said Mr. Knightley, feelingly; and for a moment or two he had done. 'But I,' he soon added, 'who have had no such charm thrown over my senses, must still see, hear, and remember. Emma is spoiled by being the cleverest of her family. At ten years old, she had the misfortune of being able to answer questions which puzzled her sister at seventeen. She was always quick and assured: Isabella slow and diffident. And ever since she was twelve, Emma has been mistress of the house and of you all. In her mother she lost the only person able to cope with her. She inherits her mother's talents, and must have been under subjection to her.'”
> 
> \- _Emma,_ Vol I, Chapter V

Mr. Knightley shoved the missive from Weston into his breast pocket as he leapt onto his horse. Insufferable, puppyish scoundrel of a rake! For Frank Churchill to deceive and manipulate _his_ Emma. Not to mention the indignity of lying to his own father and stepmother who had done nothing but forgive their son and welcome him in turn. 

As he thundered toward the Thames, Mr. Knightley pulled his hat down to keep the rain out of his eyes. Kicking his horse into a steady gallop, his mind remained focused on the two short lines at the end of Weston’s letter: _Happy and surprising news from our quarter— We have learned that Frank has been engaged to Jane Fairfax for some months. Eager to tell you all when you return._ Happy and surprising indeed! With each turn of the road, Mr. Knightley alighted on some new aspect of Mr. Churchill’s scheme. Had he not delayed his vaunted return to Highbury until Miss Fairfax’s arrival? And of course, the pianoforte had appeared the day after Mr. Churchill’s ridiculous trip to London to have his haircut. 

He imagined his dearest Emma, grieving and alone, standing by the window as she so often did. She would never reveal her distress to her father who would only be disturbed by any display of uncontrolled emotion. And of course, Emma would never go to Mrs. Weston for comfort, sensing as she would that the Westons would only be wounded further by bearing witness to her heartbreak.

No, he thought, only he could console Emma in her suffering. For was he not her dear friend? He had let his jealousy and anger get the best of him at Box Hill, but could they not put that all aside? She must know instinctively his frustration with only belied his true affection for her. Perhaps he could take her hand— even raise it to his lips as he had wished to do just before he left Highbury. He would reassure her, show her, if she would let him, that she need never be alone, that she would always be loved. 

Resisting the direction of his thoughts, Mr. Knightley closed his eyes and wiped his hand across his brow. Unfortunately, in that moment, his loyal horse, Bessie, was confronted with a large cart that had slid out of the hands of its owner and into the street. As she reared up, his wet boot slipped out his left stirrup, and he was thrust off to the side. His head hit the cobblestones with a resounding thud. 

The scream of a housemaid walking past with the morning’s post could be heard a near mile away. She ran to the still form on the side of the road and reached out, but was reluctant to touch so fine a gentleman, even in an attempt to rouse him. She instead rescued his beaver hat as it rolled toward the gutter and traced her finger gently over the precisely shaped letters stitched on the grosgrain lining, “G.K. XMAS 1813 E.W.” 

—

George Knightley, handsome, kind, and propertied, had very little in the world to distress or vex him. As such, he supposed, as he shifted further into his pillow, he must create these little problems for himself. Before even opening his eyes to greet the day, George knew he had overindulged at Weston’s the evening previous as indicated by the dull pain at his temples and the soreness of his limbs. He must withstand this bout of bottle-ache as it was to be a busy day for the young landowner and magistrate. Shielding his eyes from the light filtering through his bed curtains, he reviewed his schedule. 

First, he must visit Mr. Martin and his young son, Mr. Robert, to discuss the crating and shipping logistics for the coming fall harvest season. Young Robert was a mere 14, but was already showing a keen interest and understanding in modern farming techniques which George was happy to nurture. Following that, George had an appointment at the Crown to meet with Weston, Reverend Ingram, and Cole to discuss a few recent thefts in the neighborhood. While in town he must pay a visit to Mrs. and Miss Bates, two of Highbury’s local dignitaries, to see how they had enjoyed the strawberries he had sent last week, and, of course, to revel in their thanks.

Finally, after a quick dinner at home for appearances’ sake— he knew Serle, grumbled that they took more meals at Hartfield than they did at Donwell— he and John would visit the Woodhouses for tea where George would help finish Mr. Woodhouse’s letters to his solicitors. John and George had lost their mother and father in quick succession some three years prior, and Henry Woodhouse was the closest thing to family either of them had in Surrey. There was something to be said for having people nearby who cared for you, even if that care was often misplaced. Last week, George had sneezed after examining a dusty book and had been made to choke down three bowls of gruel as penance. 

Though John also valued Mr. Woodhouse’s company, George suspected that John had an entirely different motivation for visiting Hartfield. Isabella Woodhouse, recently eighteen years of age, had blossomed into a very pretty young woman with a gentle disposition. John had spent most of his evenings this summer in Henry Woodhouse’s overly warm drawing room regaling the gentleman’s daughter and her governess, Anne Taylor, with tales of Oxford and London while George sifted through Woodhouse's library and tried to stave off the fountain of questions bubbling forth from the younger daughter, Emma. 

Emma was a creature of an entirely different species altogether, he thought with a wearied sigh. His headache was reasserting itself as he thought of the barrage of inquiries that would greet him upon his arrival to Hartfield. It was difficult to imagine where such an incorrigible creature had originated— perhaps she was the progeny of pixies! Where Isabella was deferential, Emma was determined and far too clever for her own good. At only eleven, she had the full run of the household; George had seen her request a modification to Hartfield’s grocery order just last week! 

He had once tried to persuade Mr. Woodhouse and Miss Taylor that Emma ought to be sent to Mrs. Goddard’s as a day student for a more formal education, but Mr. Woodhouse would not hear of it. With a little structure, George thought Emma might be a true credit to her sex. She might be an author like Miss Edgeworth, or, given a burgeoning talent for drawing, an accomplished artist. However, both Miss Taylor and her father seemed satisfied with Emma’s whims and fancies remaining unchecked.

He remembered their conversation in the library just last week. 

“Mr. Knightley, is it true about the octopus?” she had asked, flouncing into the library.

“Is what true about the octopus?” 

“Are they real? I saw a drawing of one in the book of stories father gave me. Miss Taylor says they are real, but I do not believe her.” 

“Emma, you should not contradict your governess and, anyway, she is quite right in this case. The octopus is real, and it lives in the sea. Perhaps if you are so curious about them, you should read about it.” 

“I do not wish to read about it. I should like to see one myself,” Emma said, sitting on the settee across from him, and gesturing for him to partake in the tea that had just been laid down as if she were the lady of the house. 

George tried to pointedly fix his attention on the book on bond rates he had been reading. “Would you? Well, then you shall have to go to the sea. You’ll have to find someone to take you.” 

“Can _you_ not take me to the sea, Mr. Knightley?” 

“No I cannot, Emma.”

“And whyever not, _George_?” 

He very purposefully did not respond to this bit of impertinence. He merely slowly closed his book and fixed her with his sternest look. “If you want to learn about the octopus, Emma, then I shall order you a book. And you can work on Miss Taylor and your father if you wish to go to the seaside.” 

“Father will never take me!” 

“Then I shall order you a book with excellent illustrations.” 

Emma huffed and crossed her arms while George turned back to his book. He had a few moments’ peace until Emma interrupted him again, her face returned to the same eager expression she had entered the room with. “Mr. Knightley, what about squids?” 

The effects of his evening with Weston would not dissipate with thoughts of little Emma's incessant curiosity and so, with great reluctance, he opened his eyes and pulled back his bed curtains. After his eyes adjusted to the brightness of the morning light, he drew back in shock upon finding John curled up and dead asleep in the armchair near the window, looking exceedingly far worse for the wear. 

“Couldn’t even make it to your own bed, John?” 

John awoke with a start. Upon seeing George standing before him, he leapt up and gripped his brother’s shoulders. 

“George! You’re awake. And _standing._ Thank god.” John looked George up and down and— George stared incredulously at his normally stoic sibling— were those tears in his eyes? 

George walked unevenly toward the pitcher of water on the dresser. The liquor must still be affecting his balance. He must remember to never imbibe whatever decanted and unmarked liquid Weston proffered in the future. He hissed in pain as he lifted the pitcher. Had he fallen? 

“You must have had to haul me into bed, John. I remember very little of yesterday evening.” 

John watched his brother struggle to pour a glass evenly and his frown deepened. “Yesterday evening? George, you have been asleep for nearly two days. Dr. Wingfield wasn’t sure if you would ever wake.” 

George laughed and took a long sip of water. “Such nonsense, John. Who is this Wingfield you’ve conjured up? And, John—” as his eyes adjusted fully to the sunlight he surveyed the room. It had seemed so familiar just seconds ago, and yet, these were not his chambers. He looked at his brother again who seemed not just haggard, but older, graver. A tremor of fear ran down his spine. “John, where are we?” 

“We are in my house at Brunswick Square,” John answered, “We brought you here after you were found near the bridge. After you fell.” 

George shook his head, unable to fully understand. “You do not have a house at Brunswick Square. We were going to let the apartments near Bond Street from Boynton while he’s abroad.” 

“I have lived here for years. You’ve stayed in this very room on near to a hundred separate occasions.”

George scoffed. His mind was unable to settle on some reasonable explanation for his current predicament. Surely at any moment, John’s facade would crack, and he would laugh at his brother’s confusion.

“What was in that drink that Weston gave us last night anyway? Come brother, you must be serious. I must ready to visit Mr. Martin and young Robert before 8:30.” 

John, who continued to look both graver and grayer as George spoke, approached his brother carefully, looking at him the way one might regard a wild animal. “George, what year do you think it is?” 

“It’s 1804, of course.” He sat down upon the unfamiliar bed, and as he did, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the nearby mirror. There was a large bandage wrapped around his temples, but he could see an abrasion peeking out beneath it. He tilted his head and the sun caught the occasional bits of silver now peppering his sideburns. He reached up his hand to touch faint lines at the corners of his eyes and lips— smile lines— newly etched on his face. 

John watched his brother’s examination. “It’s 1814, George.”

Despite his headache, George suddenly wished he had a glass of whatever Weston was pouring ten years ago.

—

After spending nearly three days in agonizing worry, Emma slept for twelve hours. The quarters at Mr. Harper’s house in London were less spacious than her rooms at Hartfield, but she was grateful that Isabella and John’s friends had allowed her to stay at their London residence and, with even greater generosity, had allowed the children to stay there as well. After Emma had received the express from her sister, she had swiftly installed Mrs. and Miss Bates at Hartfield to care for her father and had taken their carriage to London. Though her father had initially objected, when he was made to understand the seriousness of Mr. Knightley's condition, he felt that no effort should be spared. Emma had longed to see the city’s sights and shops for years, but there was no time for frivolity.

Within hours of her arrival, Emma had the Knightley children packed and moved across the square to the Harper’s house. Mr. Wingfield had advised that the hustle, bustle, and occasional shout of five children might impede Mr. Knightley’s recovery. Emma had spent the two days since walking briskly between the two houses with supplies, news, and instructions conveyed in each direction. 

She awoke at just after eleven to the sound of Isabella knocking softly on her door. She entered and came to Emma’s bedside, gently squeezing her sister’s shoulder. 

“George is awake, Emma.” 

Emma sat straight up and began to climb swiftly out of bed. “I will write to Mrs. Hodges. Surely Mr. Knightley will return to Donwell this week, and he will need—” 

Isabella pushed Emma gently back into her pillows. “Rest, sister. You’ve done enough to help, goodness knows— Convincing father to let you come to help care for the children and George, writing to every doctor in London, dressing George’s wound when I could not bear it.”

Emma sank into her pillows to avoid Isabella’s penetrating look. Surely as Mr. Knightley was so dear to their family no one could be surprised at her concern for him. No one need know if there was any additional motivation for her care or wonder at the softness of her expression when she pushed his hair off his brow while changing his bandage.

“There’s something else, Emma.” 

Emma pushed herself up again. “An additional complication? Dr. Wingfield was worried there might be an internal injury, a concussion—” 

Isabella’s mouth formed a straight line, “I’m afraid it is different than that, but no less grave. John says he has lost time. He can’t remember much of the last ten years. There are odd things— the location of a path or planting— he seems to know, but people, events, real changes, are beyond him.” 

Emma’s heart dropped to her stomach, and she felt tears form at the corner of her eyes. “But he’s otherwise alert? He is able to move and stand? Isabella, I should go to him. Perhaps I can help. What is to be done?” 

Isabella took Emma’s hand, “Emma, I understand you want to be of further assistance, but George is awake and— besides the weakness of his mind— he is well. Mr. Wingfield has agreed to find a specialist in this kind of injury, and I am sure in the next day or so we will have additional news. I _could_ use your help caring for the children, dearest. With John living across the square and George still abed, I’ve been so distracted with worry, I’m afraid little Henry and John have destroyed half the Harpers' parlor.”

Emma sighed and wiped her cheeks. She was never one to stand down from family duties. “Not to worry, Isabella. I know a thing or two about entertaining spoiled children.” She swung her feet out of bed. “You will tell me as soon as you hear news, won’t you?” 

Isabella acquiesced, left the room, and Emma rang for her maid. She could use a bath and a cup of strong tea, but that would have to wait until the children were engaged, and she had written to her father. Sitting on the edge of her bed, Emma’s thoughts traveled across Brunswick Square. She remembered Mr. Knigthley as she had known him ten years ago. How she had delighted in impressing and vexing him in equal measure! Even then, though she wouldn’t have expressed it when she was young, she had known somehow that his frankness with her was a sign of his respect for her nascent intellect and potential, and yet she had disregarded his guidance all the same. 

It was strange to think of Mr. Knightley not knowing her as she was, grown-up and mistress of her own house, no longer his little neighbor, but his dear friend. Having been threatened with their loss over the past few days, Emma found she missed their arguments nearly as much as she missed their genial evenings at Hartfield. It was difficult to imagine a Mr. Knightley who did not know her, who— she flinched at the thought— was _polite_ to her. 

The prospect of making a new first impression on Mr. Knightley was a daunting one. What would he think of her when he met her again? And, Emma wondered with a deep sigh as she sat down at her vanity, what would he think of her if he ever remembered? 


	2. Chapter II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies in advance to any medical professionals out there with knowledge of memory disorders. I did find a text about the history of our understanding of amnesia which is where the below terminology comes from, but I have, of course, adapted Mr. Knightley's symptoms and recovery for dramatic effect.

Dr. Werner, a German-born specialist, examined George the following day. After an hour of peppering George with questions and examining his head from every angle, he was ready to make his diagnosis: 

“ _Gedächtnisschwäche,”_ Dr. Werner pronounced with his pointer finger in the air.

George blinked. He had studied a bit of German during his time at Oxford, but this was quite beyond him. Luckily, Dr. Werner elected to continue. 

“A weakness of memory, recently termed _amnesia traumatica_ by a French colleague. The condition generally will recede as the patient gains strength— though we cannot know exactly when— but I believe the chances of recovery are more favorable given the type of injury you received and your relatively young age.” 

Dr. Werner did warn that memory-specificity was recognized in amnesia— different memories or types of memories might be lost for good, and duration of loss would vary based on memory type. George shouldn’t expect all of his memories to return at once, but the order of recovery had a common progression—

Dr. Werner explained in his stout accent, “First your habits and routines will return, then your sentiments and affections, then ideas or recently developed opinions, and lastly events.” 

For treatment, Dr. Werner recommended that George focus on rebuilding both his physical and mental strength. In terms of the former, George was to return to Donwell in two weeks’ time to resume his long walks and even a few slow rides on his horse in good weather. In terms of the latter, Dr. Werner emphasized that it was critical to force George to recall his own memories. John should give his brother as little information as possible and allow George to rebuild the pathways of his mind on his own. 

It was agreed that since the patient seemed perfectly well, George should attempt to socialize with others. Dr. Werner hoped that seeing and speaking with those most familiar to him without additional context provided by John, George’s memory would be prompted into action and the effort would help him regain the years he’d lost. 

Of course there were simple facts that could not be hidden from George. And besides, much to John’s chagrin, George took too much pleasure in deducing the truth. John had already revealed the year— 1814— and from that George knew he was 37 and his brother, 32. George was not vain about his looks, but John enjoyed watching George closely examine the faint lines on his face whenever he caught his reflection in the looking glass, touching his crow’s feet as if he might smooth them out.

Later in the week, George wandered unaccompanied out of his chambers and into John’s where he discovered a very finely decorated adjoining bedroom. George rushed downstairs to breakfast to announce his discovery.

“John, I believe that you are married! And what’s more,” he said, holding up a book of children’s fables he’d found on the staircase, “I believe there are children as well!” 

John rolled his eyes from behind his newspaper, but did not deny his brother’s suspicions. 

To his surprise and chagrin, George could discover no evidence of a wife of his own. John had said he stayed regularly in his current rooms at Brunswick Square, but there was no room adjoining and no women’s toilette or clothing. He found a blonde hair on the armchair at his bedside, but supposed it belonged to John’s mysterious wife (and George had distinct suspicions regarding her identity). The only hint of any romance he was able to unearth was a half-drawn portrait of a woman’s face found underneath months of receipts and sales records. He could not know whether time or despair had buried the drawing. And surely— despite Dr. Werner’s instructions— a wife would have visited his sick bed.

He had not expected to find himself still a bachelor at thirty-seven years old. He had always valued family and duty very highly. And he was not immune to the allure of a beautiful woman. He had taken an abbreviated Grand Tour due to the turmoil in France, but the trip had been long enough to ensure he was appropriately knowledgeable of the fairer sex’s charms. And upon his return, prior to the death of his father, George had met occasionally with a one or two discrete young widows as was germane to a man of his age and station. However, George knew well that these arrangements— which he did take pains to ensure were to the mutual pleasure of each—would be eclipsed by the love and fulfillment he experienced when he found his wife and partner. 

When he imagined his future, he had never doubted he would have an heir to mentor and guide as his father had for him. His parents’ marriage had been dearly happy. As a boy, he had been delighted by their fond smiles at one another, their soft conversations by the fireside, and even their loving spats. As an adult, he recognized how rare that was— for a husband and wife to have true respect and enduring love and friendship for one another— and had privately vowed that he would wait to marry until he found it for himself. There were a few women he liked well enough that might have been considered a worthy match. But, the wife, the helpmeet, he wished for had always been elusive, and he supposed it was no wonder that she remained just as elusive now. 

On the day following his awakening, George was allowed by Dr. Werner and John to review some of the correspondence that had reached him in London. He found cheerful missives from Robert Martin, now the manager of Abbey Mill Farm, and from Larkins. Both were anticipating a fruitful harvest season and had kind words for the Master of Donwell who had helped to bring it about. Cole too had corresponded regarding Highbury and Donwell Parish business, and his letters summarized the result of several recent conflicts George had administered. These letters, he hoped, seemed to demonstrate that he had been a good landowner and Magistrate to his community. He supposed that could be enough to keep him satisfied. 

—

With Dr. Werner’s permission, John arranged for a small party at the Harper’s home. “George’s debut,” John had joked to Emma and Isabella when he had visited across the square to see his wife and children. The Harpers themselves had returned to their house in Derbyshire for the remainder of the summer and had left with the Knightleys with strict instructions to treat the house as they would their own. John asked Emma to invite Frank Churchill and Jane Fairfax, both in town after the death of Mrs. Churchill, and to relay that Colonel and Mrs. Campbell might accompany Jane if they were available. John also intended to invite those who might conveniently travel the three hour journey to London from Highbury.

“Mrs. Weston is not so very close to confinement,” he declared, “Perhaps she and Weston can be induced to attend for just an evening since Weston keeps apartments in town. I’ve written to Cole and Elton. The Bateses, of course, are with your father and must remain. Am I slighting anyone, Emma? Who else would George wish to see?” 

Emma’s thoughts flew to Harriet. She was certain that, after their last exchange by letter, Harriet had some idea of Emma’s feelings regarding Mr. Knightley, and she knew that any meeting between them might be awkward. However, as she remembered Harriet’s confidence in Mr. Knightley’s affection, Emma could not deny her friend the same opportunity with which she herself was presented: to see the man she was in love with and hope that her presence would interest him. Harriet must be invited. She could travel with the Coles and stay at Harper House. The children did love Harriet who always indulged their every whim. 

However, Emma was surprised when Harriet wrote back to decline. While expressing her grave concern for Mr. Knightley’s health and grief over his weakened memory, Harriet said she felt it would be too painful to see him, and that, in any case, she had accepted an invitation to dine with Elizabeth and Katherine Martin that evening. Emma felt puzzled at Harriet’s refusal, but she did not question it further, for the more overwhelming feeling by far was one of relief. 

The evening of the party quickly arrived, and Emma rang her lady’s maid to help her dress, extremely conscious that she was about to make a first impression on a man she’d known all her life. Emma was not vain, nor was she at all self-conscious about her appearance. She’d never worried about dressing with an eye to Mr. Knightley’s preferences before though she’d always been pleased when he had observed her and could find no fault with her person. Emma tried and discarded several of Isabella’s dresses ranging from the demure to the mildly scandalous—as was the current London fashion—until her maid let out a very uncharacteristic huff. 

Finally, Emma decided on an old favorite that had been packed for her, a deep pink frock with just the right amount of finery and trim to give her an air of sophistication without tipping over the edge into frivolity. She styled her hair more conservatively than usual. Her overarching motivation was to affect rather than attract. She wanted him to think well of her— if he thought of her at all. Indeed, she had no idea whether he would know her as soon as they met. 

As she waited for Isabella to join her in the foyer to greet their guests, Emma twisted her gloves, lost in her thoughts. Suddenly, she felt a weight against her legs and looked down to find little John Knightley hugging her tightly. 

“John, did you ask to be excused from dinner?” Emma gave her nephew her best stern look, and he looked back at her with wide, pleading eyes. 

“I finished all of my vegetables and the fish! I swear!” 

“Well that was well done, John. Your mama says you may stay downstairs until Uncle George arrives. Come sit with me on the bench, and you can help me greet our guests.” 

They sat in companionable silence. Emma gave John one of her gloves to fuss with which he fashioned into a puppet. Finally John asked her, “Will you see Uncle George tonight, Aunt Emma?” She nodded, and her nephew continued, “Mama said he is not feeling well. I hope we make him feel better.” 

Emma patted John’s shoulder softly. “I am sure he will feel better very soon.” 

John looked up at her, “You look very pretty, Aunt Emma.” 

She smiled at him. “That is very sweet, John,” and then she whispered almost to herself, “I do hope your uncle will think so too.” 

“He will,” John said, giggling as his puppet tried to devour the buttons of his jacket. “When he came to London, Bella wanted to know all about the ball in Highbury. She asked if you had looked pretty at the ball.” 

Emma blushed. “And what did Uncle George say?” She resisted the urge to ask if he had said anything about Harriet Smith.

“He said,” and here little John lowered his voice to a low tone and furrowed his brow, “‘Your Aunt Emma is always beautiful.’” John laughed at his clever impression, failing to notice his aunt blinking back tears. 

At the sound of carriages at the door, Emma stood, prepared her brightest smile, and steeled herself for an unusual evening.


	3. Chapter III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The dramatic irony when writing from Mr. Knightley's perspective is just too fun. :) Thank you all so much for your comments and encouragement! I'm looking forward to hearing what you think of the chapter below.

George was pleased that the gathering thrown in his honor was just across the square and therefore there was no need to take a carriage. He eagerly watched shadowy figures approach the Harper’s house, hoping for a hint of whom he might meet. With only John and Dr. Werner for company for days, George felt eager to go into society, but John was mum on the list of attendees. Party-goers would be well-known to George though perhaps not well-remembered. They had arranged that he and John would be last to arrive so that the others could receive instruction on how to behave. 

Finally, at the appointed hour, the Knightley brothers departed. “Now remember, George,” John reminded his brother as they crossed the square, “Do not be too clever. You enjoy your little deductions too well. They have all been instructed not to give direct answers about who they are or what has happened. You must try to regain the memories yourself. Dr. Werner says—” 

“Yes, yes, I know.” George sighed impatiently. “I must strengthen my mind. Focus on my emotions and ideas and let them lead to memories.” 

“I know this is difficult, brother. You’ve never been given to much self-examination.” 

George snorted at this and touched the bandage about his temple self-consciously. John had no standing to criticize him on this matter. And, indeed, what was there for him to examine? Though he had no master other than himself, he was always kind and gracious to others, was he not? He had had the same friends for most of his life. He led a simple life at Donwell and Highbury, and it seemed that very little had altered in the past decade. What mystery could be buried for him to discover?

Upon entering Harper House, they were greeted warmly by Weston who, if possible, looked somehow younger than he had ten years ago. Clearly, the decade had been kind to him.

Weston leaned toward George conspiratorially. “As I am featured in your most recent memory, I have been designated with the honor of welcoming you to a party I did not arrange in a home that is not my own. I understand that the last thing you remember is the night I brought out the Carribean rum from my friend in the Navy. I believe you and John had to send for a carriage.” 

George laughed, “I am very glad that this gathering is _not_ in your stuffy old parlor, and I have the distinct feeling that your small house in the village center is no longer the place you call home. You look as though you’ve aged backward, Weston. And what a fine coat that is!”

Weston chuckled and gestured for them to continue into the house. George observed twenty or so guests, some of whom he recognized immediately. Cole and his wife were there along with a few of his school friends who lived in London. All the guests were studiously indifferent to his arrival. They were under strict instruction, no doubt, to behave as they normally would, which only resulted in stiff manners and awkward avoidance. George couldn’t help but notice that there were a few unfamiliar and uncommonly handsome women present, and he thought fleetingly of the half-drawn portrait in his bureau. 

John cleared his throat and with a small nod of his head, directed George’s attention to the side of the room where a pleasant-looking woman was shepherding three children forward to meet him. A rush of emotion overwhelmed him as he took in each of their familiar features— one older boy with a serious look and distinctly Knightley nose, the girl blessed with his own mother’s eyes and strawberry hair, and a fine featured younger son who was the spitting image of a certain, sweet tempered neighbor— 

George looked up at the woman behind them whom he recognized immediately, “Isabella, these are the most wonderful children I have ever beheld.” He made a show of looking about the room. “You must introduce me to their very handsome father. Is he here this evening?” 

John laughed and jabbed George’s ribs with his elbow. “I’m afraid I must take credit for this motley crew who insisted they could not go to bed until they bore witness to your good health. Henry, Bella, John, what do you have to say to you uncle?”

Bella squealed and ran back to hide behind her mother’s skirts. The eldest boy, who must be Henry, stepped forward and solemnly shook George’s hand. “We hope you are better soon, Uncle. John and I were to visit Donwell next month, and you promised we could practice riding.”

“You said you’d find me a pony!” John added, grabbing George’s coat and attempting to drag him from the party and into the family’s rooms, “And I want a black one like in the picture you showed me.”

Isabella intervened. “There now, children, you’ve seen him. Follow Miss Katherine upstairs. Uncle George will return to play with you later in the week.” 

The children begrudgingly departed, trailing behind their nursemaid. Isabella turned back toward her husband and brother-in-law. “We decided it would be best to have you meet them as they love you too well to keep them away. There are two more besides, but they are both already asleep.” 

Isabella’s smile was tired, but content. In George’s memory she was a fresh-faced eighteen year old, angelic in her white gowns and strolling next to John through Hartfield’s garden while Miss Taylor trailed discreetly behind. The worries and whims of five children had aged her, but her beauty was still apparent. She had the same mild countenance and reddish blonde hair peeking out from under her cap.

George slapped his brother a little too hard on the back, and John coughed in surprise. “My dear brother,” George’s delighted expression danced between his brother and Isabella, “Last I recall you were on a singular mission to win the heart and hand of the loveliest woman in Highbury. I congratulate you on your resounding success.” 

John murmured his thanks, a slight blush evident in the candlelight, and Isabella laughed. She gestured toward the remainder of the guests. “We will have ample time for you to learn more about our courtship, Mr. Knightley, but I know several of our guests have travelled far to see you. Please greet your friends.” 

“Knightley!” 

An unfamiliar woman— who had addressed him with surprising familiarity— gestured to him. She was wearing a garish orange frock and standing in a small group with Mr. Cole and a finely dressed gentleman George had never met. 

He bowed to the lady and gentleman and shook Cole’s hand. “Cole, my dear friend, you look quite as you should. If I had seen you before John, I would not have imagined that I am missing any time at all.”

Cole laughed, “You are far too kind, Knightley. Though it’s been ages since anyone could accuse you of being a flatterer. These days you are unafraid to tell me exactly what you think without preamble. Now, I believe you may not remember our friends here.” 

Following Cole’s gesture, George appraised the pair. He assumed that they were a couple based on the closeness of their positions and their matching haughty expressions. The woman seemed expectant, as if a mere glance at her visage would miraculously cure his weakened mind. 

“How do y’do,” George smiled politely, hoping they would understand from his reserve that he, indeed, could not remember them at all. 

“We were so worried, Knightley,” the woman snapped open her fan dramatically, “when we heard of your fall and rushed to London as quick as we could to be of use to you in your recovery. Of course, we knew you would value the wise counsel and support of my _caro sposo._ ”

George could not imagine why he would desire the counsel of the gentleman with the toothy grin standing next to her. He was about to politely demure until, noting the all-black clothing of the gentleman and the rather prominent cross adorning the necklace of the lady, he put two and two together. 

“You must be Highbury’s latest vicar,” he declared, pleased to have solved one puzzle. 

“Oh Knightley!” she gasped with elation, “I knew you would remember us!” George did not correct her and bit back an amused smile as she spoke over her husband’s well wishes. “Considering the great friendship between you and my Mr. E— not to mention our service to the Highbury community and to our particular friend—”

At this, she glanced over her shoulder at a dark haired woman, one of the beautiful women that George had noted earlier. As the lady in the orange frock— _Mrs._ E. she must be— continued to emphatically state her deep distress over his injury, George’s attention remained fixed on this new mystery. The unknown woman stood next to a gentleman in a military uniform who looked around Weston’s age— perhaps fifty. This man, a colonel— George could discern by his insignia— was familiar. He allowed the candlelight to wash away a decade of wear as Mrs. E. prattled on, and, with some effort, George remembered Colonel Cambell, Jane Fairfax’s benefactor whom he’d met during little Jane’s annual visit to the Bates’s cottage. 

He turned his attention back to the dark-haired woman beside the Colonel and couldn’t help but start as he realized who she must be. His last memory of Jane Fairfax was of an eleven year old child visiting her aunt and grandmother in Highbury. She was quiet, studious, and already renowned in Highbury for her excellent hand at the pianoforte. George couldn’t help but observe what a lovely young woman she’d become and wonder at this Mrs. E. calling Miss Fairfax his “particular friend.” Perhaps his future was not so solitary afterall.

He interrupted the soliloquy of the vicar’s wife, “My dear madame, I believe earlier you referred to Jane Fairfax. Could that be her behind you?”

“Oh yes, of course! Of course you would remember Jane.” She violently waved Jane over with her fan. “Jane! Jane! Come. Hurry! Knightley wishes to speak with you.” 

With Colonel Campbell following close behind, Miss Fairfax sauntered over. She walked so calmly, her face so impassive, George thought she looked as though she’d never hurried anywhere in her life. He could not help but be charmed by what an elegant impression she made. 

If George’s attention was briefly drawn to a flash of gold out of the corner of his eye, he did not have even a moment to examine it further before Miss Fairfax was before him and curtsied. After the customary small talk and an inquiry after her aunt and grandmother, George was intrigued enough to wish to engage her further. She looked up at him with her large brown eyes which, he considered, might have been very expressive if given the opportunity. Instead they were as placid as a lake. 

He thought perhaps music might interest her still. “I remember, Miss Fairfax, that even ten years ago, you were a very accomplished musician. Surely you’ve kept it up? It would be wonderful to hear you play again.” George attempted his warmest smile, hoping it would disarm her into being a bit more sociable. 

“Through the Campbells’ generosity, I have had the opportunity to continue to study music, but I cannot profess to be anything other than a hobbyist. It is most kind of you to remember.” 

George knew that her manner must be considered very gentile, but he found himself frustrated by it. He had always put a high value on candor and openness and though he could not doubt her sincerity, he had very little patience for this false humility, this reservation, not just in terms of her conversation, but in her very bearing. Whenever worry or pleasure crossed her features, it was quickly suppressed. Every expression, every modulation in her voice was tempered immediately. 

“Not just the Campbells’ generosity,” Mrs. E. broke in, impatient to rejoin the conversation. Jane looked at her with some surprise. “Oh no no, I don’t mean _me_ ,” Mrs. Elton continued softly patting Jane’s arm, “Although, I hope I may be considered one of your benefactors, Jane, given all the efforts I made— well— I meant the source of your pianoforte delivered to your aunt’s, but! I suppose nothing further should be said there. Hush hush, you know!”

George looked curiously at Jane who blushed. Clearly there was some significance to the gift of the pianoforte. If the instrument had not been given by the Campbells or the E’s—whatever their name was— perhaps it was sent by an admirer of Miss Fairfax? He had a shocking thought: What if _he_ had sent the pianoforte to MIss Fairfax? Her current reticence could be tied to an understanding between them. He had a vision of Jane Fairfax smiling softly at him as she graced the instrument in her aunt’s parlor. But it was rather a _small_ parlor, was it not? Such a large, hulking instrument for such a poorly-suited room. Really, it was rather an inconsiderate gift. He couldn’t fathom sending it.

As was natural, others joined their conversation, and Mr. Knightley made an effort to socialize with everyone in attendance as he knew they were all there to participate in his recovery. He spoke with Mrs. Cole and with a few of his friends from university, most of them a bit stouter and more serious. All of his conversations were kept at a surface level and covered topics he might discuss with anyone— books, music, the weather. He could feel his memories start to loosen and reveal themselves, like pebbles that fall before a landslide: a volume of poetry he and Cole discussed published only seven years ago, a storm last year that had stuck one of Donwell’s oldest trees, a bookstore he and Cal, one of his friends from college, had visited just one year ago. 

As Cal and John prattled on about the latest nonsense from Parliament, he noticed an animated young man he had yet to meet standing rather close to Miss Fairfax and the Campbells. Perhaps this young man, not he, was Miss Fairfax’s mystery patron. Watching them attentively, he examined the man’s easy smile, fashionable dress, and apparent youth and felt a jolt of envy run through him. Perhaps he wished to return to his own youth? Perhaps he was a rival for Miss Fairfax’s affections? George shook his head, exhausted by the very thought of it.

To distract himself, he looked about, wondering if there were others he had yet to speak with. He slowly surveyed the parlor until his eyes came to rest on an unknown figure standing just at the edge of the candlelight, a woman— a young woman— in a pink frock with an elegant swan-like neck topped by a blonde coiffure— that persistent flash of gold that had been in the corner of his eye earlier in the evening. She must have felt his gaze for she looked away from her companion and turned toward him, regarding him with equal scrutiny. For a moment, her lips parted and broke into a broad, open smile until, as if realizing some error, her smile faltered, and she turned back to her friend and their conversation. 

George had never been considered a frivolous person. His friendships were few and slow to mature. He had never felt any kind of spontaneous burst of intimacy or affection. Indeed in his quiet hours of contemplation later that evening, he would not admit to himself any particular interest. 

But she was uniquely beautiful— loveliness itself with regular features and a soft complexion. Though she stood mostly in shadow, to George it seemed she was lit from within. Less elegant, perhaps, than Miss Fairfax, and less finely dressed than the vicar's wife, but she was the picture of good health in bloom.

From her dress and manner he sensed she had been raised in the country— her smile was too open and genial for a woman born in town—but he could not place her among his peers in Highbury. Her age was difficult to determine. She was young, certainly, but seemed to carry a natural air of authority in her stance and the way she spoke. He would have guessed she was twenty-four or five years old. _Not far from my age,_ he thought briefly before remembering with chagrin he was a good deal older. Never had his surname been so apt. He felt innately that he would face the sharp end of a sword for her whether or not she wished it.

When he noticed with whom she was speaking, he saw his opportunity. With a brief excuse to those around him, he approached the lady and her friend, his dear friend and occasional foil, Miss Taylor.

—

Emma had been unsettled the whole evening. It was strange to be at a party where Mr. Knightley did not seek her out. To watch him wander about the parlor, never really seeing her—as if she was of no particular importance—was more disconcerting than she could have realized. At first, she dreaded seeing the spark of recognition in his eyes. He might see her and remember her as a child: spoiled, vexing, incorrigible. Of course, what in that assessment had changed? When he recovered, his last memory would be of her unpardonable rudeness to Miss Bates. 

She would admit upon consideration, their relationship _had_ changed in recent years despite her failings. Not that she believed it had turned mutually romantic—she could not flatter her own wishes so baselessly—but they were no longer just old family friends. He sought her opinion nearly as often as she sought his, and she knew his evening visits to Hartfield were no longer simply to indulge and assist her father. Even their arguments were a reflection of their mutual regard. Perhaps, if provided the opportunity, their banter could be quickly reestablished. But, after a half hour of watching him socialize with others seeming to hardly notice her, she grew frustrated. Indeed, when he recognized and greeted Jane Fairfax of all people, she decided— spitefully, she knew— to avoid him for the rest of the evening altogether. 

Emma tried her best to focus on her conversation with Mrs. Weston, who had been kind enough to attend despite her condition (with Perry’s explicit approval and to Mr. Woodhouse’s great consternation). Mrs. Weston was relaying all of the particulars of her first interview with Miss Fairfax after the engagement had become publicly known. A little curiosity Emma had, and she made the most of it while her friend related.

“This was one of her expressions," Mrs. Weston leaned close to whisper, "'I will not say, that since I entered into the engagement I have not had some happy moments; but I can say, that I have never known the blessing of one tranquil hour:'—and the quivering lip, Emma, which uttered it, was an attestation that I felt at my heart!” Mrs. Weston clutched emphatically at her shawl.

“Poor girl!” said Emma.

Anxious as Emma was to hear the whole of it, she sensed she was being observed. She turned to find Mr. Knightley watching her from beneath his bandage with frank appraisal. She reflexively smiled at him as she always did. He had a tendency to look so very grave at social gatherings, and she always enjoyed forcing a smile from him. But when his bemused expression did not alter, she caught herself and turned away.

But before she could refocus her mind on Mrs. Weston’s joy over her new daughter-in-law elect, Mr. Knightley was next to them. The sheer familiarity of his presence overwhelmed her, leaving her dull and silent. Luckily, Mrs. Weston was there to smooth the way. 

“Mr. Knightley!” she greeted him warmly, “We have been waiting for you to speak to us, but you are quite in demand this evening.”

Mr. Knightley bowed deeply to Mrs. Weston and herself. _How gallant,_ Emma thought, _how unlike him._

“Are you implying that I am not usually in demand at social gatherings, madam?” he asked with a rather impertinent smile. Mrs. Weston laughed, but Emma found she could offer no response at all. Though he looked at Emma directly with some curiosity, he seemed unsure how to address her and instead focused his conversation on Mrs. Weston. 

“I believe you are due several congratulations, and I hope that I delivered them at the appropriate time,” he said. 

Mrs. Weston rested her hands on her figure, swollen with child. “Yes, Mr. Knightley, I have been appropriately well-wished by all,” she replied, “Though I am committed to your recovery, there were a few changes in circumstance we were unable to obfuscate.” 

“And,” he looked at Mrs. Weston sidelong, “I believe I should offer the same congratulations to Weston as well?” Mrs. Weston grinned and nodded to Mr. Knighley’s delight. “I cannot be sure if it was intuition, memory, or the two intermingled, Mrs. Weston, but Weston looks ten years younger, and I somehow knew that a beautiful new wife must be the cause.” 

Mr. Knightley took Mrs. Weston’s hand, bowing low to her again, and— to Emma’s great discomposure— Mrs. Weston blushed like a schoolgirl.

Emma was not sure at all that she liked how charming _this_ Mr. Knightley could be. She had witnessed his warm assessment of Jane Fairfax earlier. Apparently the last ten years had tempered his desire to charm and flatter for _she_ had never received such attentions from him. All of this agreeable smiling and bowing— more like Frank Churchill than George Knightley! And what had he said of him? “Your amiable young man can be amiable only in French, not in English.” She had the sense that _this_ Mr. Knightley— younger in mind and still handsome in person— took more pleasure in the effect he had on others. He seemed more cognizant that, due to his station and gentility, his attentions shone a light on those who received them. 

He turned again to Emma, still with great puzzlement, “Despite my excellent work discerning Mrs. Weston’s new situation, I am afraid my memories must continue to elude me. I am sure only the trauma of my fall could allow me to forget a lady so remarkable.”

Emma fought the inclination to roll her eyes. She would not allow herself to be drawn in by this false gallantry. If he knew who she was, all of this infuriating decorousness would dissipate immediately. They could speak plainly, as they always had. 

When she did not respond, he resumed, “I have recognized many old friends, the Perrys, the Coles, and the Westons, who have kindly come to London to greet me, and I have met and understood new acquaintances like the vicar and his wife, but with you I am at something of a loss.” 

Unable to tolerate a moment more of his mannerly speech, Emma rolled back her shoulders and lifted her chin. He would never remember her if she did not behave as she usually did. She masked her expression with one of greatest indifference and replied, “I am afraid it is quite common for you to be at a _loss_ with me, Mr. Knightley. We have many little arguments, and I am afraid I must remind you, I always win.”


	4. Chapter IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for taking so long to post! It's a busy time of year here in the US, but I'm hoping to get back on track, posting every 3-4 days or so. Thank you all for the extremely kind feedback. It has been truly lovely to read your comments and discuss this piece with you. I hope this chapter lives up to expectations.

George took a long sip of his wine. Something about the easy way she said _Mr. Knightley_ made his mouth go dry. She spoke confidently, but he could sense an edge in her voice, and he was unsure what to make of it. Now close to her, he found himself noticing painfully small details about her person— the enumerable shades of gold in her hair, the angle of her jaw, a freckle next to her nose— each one cutting through him like a blade. 

He realized he’d been looking at her far too intently, and, shaking his head, he looked down and away. “Then I must apologize, it seems. I am sure it is not gentlemanly to quarrel with a lady so frequently.” 

For a moment she balked, and he very nearly cowed in defeat. But then, like sunlight through a window, her haughty expression broke apart as she laughed— the most musical, maddening laugh George had ever heard. It was the first real sign of pleasure he’d received from her, and though he knew it was one of mirth, he felt inordinately pleased that _she_ was pleased with him. 

“I have said before,” she finally replied, “‘There might not be one in a hundred with _gentleman_ so plainly written across them as in Mr. Knightley.’ You are always the soul of propriety, sir, and, I assure you, you are always quick to tell me when you believe that I am not.” 

George blinked as he took in her expression, her lips pursed into a clever little smirk. Who was this creature? Though her address was very civil, very ladylike, he could sense a familiarity. Perhaps she was the wife or widow of a dear friend? The thought left him discomfited for reasons he did not wish to fully examine.

“As I must respect the instructions of my physician and not ask you about any present particulars, I suppose I must leave your insinuations a mystery, and, as a _gentleman_ , will politely change the subject.” His mind grasped for a way to learn more about her. “You are clearly a woman of intelligence. Perhaps you can tell me about what you read?” 

Her eyes crinkled with glee, and he somehow knew he had alighted on a hazardous topic. “Mostly novels,” she began, “An occasional play. I dearly love a book of puzzles or a collection of riddles.” 

She raised her eyebrows, challenging him to respond. George scoffed. 

“You disapprove, I suppose?” she asked, though she was clearly unsurprised by his reaction. He noticed the animated young man had joined their party and felt only the need to provide a cursory acknowledgement before offering his reply:

“Well, that is hardly substantive literature. What of the classics? Milton or Donne?” 

“Do either of them write romantic riddles? I prefer ones that are very succinct.” 

Any lingering effort to smooth or to charm evaporated as George’s eyes darkened and narrowed. He was so fixed on the young woman’s temerity that he could not bring himself to notice Mrs. Weston shaking with concealed giggles. 

“I am sure you know quite well that neither of them do,” George parried, “And as I have discovered lately, madam, you cannot take your mind for granted. Puzzles, novels, and riddles will not suffice to strengthen your thinking.” 

She frowned soberly, but her look lost none of its humor. “I am sure I will later reflect on your guidance with the same degree of consideration and gravity as I always do.” 

George bit back a bitter smile, rolling backwards onto his heels as if touched by the point of her sabre. He opened his mouth to reply, unsure how he could respond to such insolence. When no witty retort revealed itself, he jutted out his chin in indignation.

“Nonsensical girl!” was his reply, at last, but it was not at all in anger. 

She pressed her lips together, stifling a laugh—and George found himself pondering a myriad of ways to remove the damnable smirk from her face once and for all—when Mrs. Weston kindly interrupted his reverie with a change of subject. 

“And how do you find your nieces and nephews, Mr. Knightley?” 

George bent his head to Mrs. Weston in thanks. “I look forward to learning more about them. However, I am already quite certain they are the most marvelous children I have ever beheld.” 

“Ah, you see, sir, _there_ is a point on which we see eye-to-eye!” the fair-haired young lady declared, “There are no children in England more intelligent, more good-spirited than the Knightley children.” 

George cocked his head and looked at her thoughtfully, “I am surprised. You must not have nieces and nephews, madame, as I am certain all uncles and aunts think their own young relations to be the best of all creatures. But indeed, I suppose I am surprised we agree on anything at all.” 

He narrowed his eyes as she rolled hers. She opened her mouth, clearly readying to make a last counter argument when John approached their party and cut her off.

“George, the hour has grown quite late enough. And besides, in a matter of minutes—” John raised an eyebrow at the lady— “Our friend here has managed to thoroughly agitate you, though I suppose I should not be at all surprised.” 

The fair-haired young woman nodded curtly at John, but said nothing. Though George was tempted to take advantage of her silence to make an additional retort, his inherent politeness prevailed. 

“Thank you all for attending our party. It has been most useful to my recovery, but I’m sure it must have been a most unusual evening for all of you.” 

“On the contrary,” the young man said with a wolfish grin, looking between George and the fair-haired lady, “I found it very amusing.”

Mrs. Weston nodded. “Indeed Mr. Knightley, it almost seems as if nothing is out of the ordinary at all.” 

George nodded to each of them in turn— Mrs. Weston, the animated man, and finally the young lady who now seemed mysteriously tongue-tied. He felt a strong need to reassure her, and without any real intent to do so, he reached for her gloved fingertips and brushed them with his own. “I did enjoy our conversation. Perhaps my brother and I might call on your family if that would be appropriate? Your father—or your husband—if we are acquainted?”

The corner of her mouth turned up, delighted, and George sighed in relief, but then he should have predicted she would offer no satisfaction.

“Goodnight, Mr. Knightley,” she said with a low curtsy.

George pondered her sphinx-like expression as he exited the party behind John. A deer in the woods, he could sense danger nearby, but he could not begin to guess at its shape or direction.

\--

Emma clasped the fingers he had touched as if she might preserve his warmth. The idea of Mr. Knightley formally calling upon her family rather than sauntering over whenever he chose was so comical she almost could not bear it. She had noted the very pregnant pause prior to “husband,” and— with her sole motivation being his recovery alone, of course— she had felt it best not to clarify further. Attempting to keep her expression neutral, she turned back to Mrs. Weston and Frank, sardonic as ever.

“I think I like him better this way,” he said, considering Mr. Knightley’s parting figure.

“You should not joke about such things, Frank,” Mrs. Weston replied, swatting him with her gloves. 

“Indeed, I am not joking, my dear Mrs. Weston. I must say, I find him much more interesting now. And perhaps others do also? I believe I detected a flirtatious bend to his conversation, Miss Woodhouse.” 

Emma rolled her eyes at Frank’s raised brow. “Please, we always talk in such a way. Do we not, Mrs. Weston? Mr. Knightley and I can always find something to argue about. The children, literature, carriages...” _Harriet Smith,_ Emma thought.

“Yes, poor Mr. Knightley is often the object of Emma’s wit,” Emma nodded but she did not like the apprising look that accompanied Mrs. Weston’s next words, “But he does not seem to much mind.” 

“Clearly he does not,” Frank said gaily, though upon finding Emma to be genuinely put-out, he demurred, “I am sure it is merely the lighter, less encumbered attitudes of his youth that have left me with such an impression.” 

“I believe very little of Mr. Knightley’s circumstances have changed in the past ten years,” Emma said as she fussed with the buttons of her gloves, “But perhaps he has invented a few hardships for himself, as I have advised you to do.” 

Frank laughed. “Yes, of course. You always give sound advice, Miss Woodhouse, although I find I cannot even conjure the idea of such hardships presently. ” He turned his attention to Jane. “She is a complete angel. Is she not an angel in every gesture? Observe the turn of her throat, her eyes looking up at my father—” 

Despite any ill feelings earlier in the evening, Emma was dearly happy to listen to Frank’s praise of his betrothed. Though she regarded Frank with friendship, she had never been more sensible of the high superiority and steadiness of character of _her_ Mr. Knightley— if he could be called such. And yet, she considered, remembering the way his eyes had darkened and his fingers had brushed hers, Frank might be right. There might be a few reawakened aspects of his personality she might endeavor to appreciate.


	5. Chapter V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few notes regarding artistic license that I've taken: I have fussed a bit with the dates publication and translation dates for the Grimm Brothers stories referenced below, but I did find it fascinating that these fairy tales were being written down and popularized right at the end of Jane Austen's life. Another slight historical inaccuracy- the Season in London would usually be over by midsummer (when this story takes place), but it did sometimes go into June or July when the parliamentary session went long. 
> 
> Thank you again for all of your comments and thoughts! It's very fun to see how others are responding to this story and to have the opportunity to correspond with you all about Emma! I could probably write a whole series of drabbles with John and George Knightley having slightly abrupt, but ultimately supportive conversations (see also: my earlier story, Everything for the Good of the Other). I hope you enjoy it too.

George joined John for breakfast the next day. Beyond a perfunctory “good morning,” the tea was poured and the toast was served with nothing but the scrape of butter on bread disrupting their silence. Finally, as John stood up with the paper in hand, preparing to disappear behind newsprint for the remainder of the morning, George could bear it no further. 

“Well?” 

John sat back down in his chair at the head of the table. “Well what?” 

“Was the evening a success?” George asked, exasperated, “Was it well received? Do you think I’ve made progress?” 

John plopped the newspaper back down onto the table, sensing the direction and length that this conversation was likely to take. “I believe some of our friends found you more charming than usual. As to your progress, that is for you to determine. I heard you and Cal discussing more recent activities, but I am also aware that you were indulging in a certain amount of guesswork as well.” 

George did not respond to this criticism, but took a glum sip of tea. John made a tentative move to stand up again when George signaled he wished to discuss the evening further— 

“All of our acquaintances seemed well enough.” 

“Yes.” 

“I managed to discover the identity of nearly everyone. Even the young vicar and his wife— whose name I cannot discern. Something with “E.” She calls me ‘Knightley.’ Is that not strange?”

“You are not supposed to _discover_ anything, George; you’re supposed to try to _remember_.”

George soldiered on. “And of course, I can’t place that puppyish gentleman or the lady I spoke to before we left. I suppose she is not a very significant acquaintance—perhaps someone’s wife or friend? Although she seemed to be at the party unaccompanied.” 

John said nothing. 

“Quite impertinent. Thinks herself very clever, and I would believe she is. I thought we might call upon her family? After all, I suppose she is important enough that you would invite her yesterday evening. And Dr. Werner said larger society may assist in strengthening my memory.” 

John stoically examined his fork. “Well then, do you think she’s significant, as you say, or not?” 

George did not know how to answer this. There was no need for John to know if he had strong feelings one way or the other, which, of course, he did. He shrugged as if it was of no consequence and took a bite of his toast. “I am looking forward to seeing more of the children and Isabella.” 

“Of course.” 

“It is too bad Woodhouse wasn’t there.” 

“Mmm.” 

“But of course, he never leaves Highbury. I would venture to guess he barely leaves Hartfield nowadays. Little Emma would be there with him.”

For a brief second, John met George’s eyes and then turned quickly back to his thorough examination of his place setting. George, thinking himself quite cunning, knew he must have alighted on some topic of intrigue. He traced back through his last subject, _Little Emma._

“Ah, but she is not so little anymore! She must be around twenty-one or twenty-two now. How strange. Has she convinced Oxford to admit its first lady? Or joined some dowager on a European tour? I always thought it would do her good to travel, to see how much of the world fails to revolve around her and her whims.” He imagined how she might appear now, fully grown— still tall and gangly with red cheeks and white blonde hair—looking over the bow of a ship or fixing some college Don with that merciless stare of hers. 

George’s questions were met only with an arch look from John who now studied his brother intently. George could not understand why he would be so close-lipped about their dear neighbor. 

“Perhaps Woodhouse does not allow her to go out into society often? Though I’m sure she remains quite strong-willed.” She might even be married, George thought, although he could not imagine who in Highbury could be her equal in wit or gall. Besides, even at eleven Emma seemed remarkably uninterested in marriage for herself while being greatly concerned about the affairs of others.

After one last long look, John stood and picked up his paper with finality. “George, I wish you would try not to guess at the Woodhouse’s present state. This conjecture does you no good. Take a little time this evening and make an effort to think. Open your mind as Dr. Werner advised. Oh and by-the-by—”

George looked up from the boiled egg he was cracking in frustration with John’s reticence. “What?” 

“Tomorrow evening we will attend an assembly. Isabella has secured vouchers for one of the gardens.”

George’s egg split open and his spoon clattered against the plate. “An assembly?! With dancing?” 

“Yes, obviously,” John said, gesturing airily at George, “Larger society will strengthen your mind, per your Dr. Werner, as you said.” 

“I won’t know anyone there. And I won’t know any of the dances.”

John huffed. “You will know enough people there, and I’m sure you wouldn’t dance regardless of whether or not you know the steps.” 

George made himself busy over salting the yolk. “I am sure this is not what Dr. Werner had in mind. You will dance with Isabella, and I will be left with no one to talk to.” 

John’s mouth drew into a thin line. “Come brother. I believe Cal and his wife will be there—” 

“Some boring third daughter of an earl no doubt.”

“—as will Miss Fairfax. And the impertinent young lady.” 

George said nothing, but ceased his torrent of seasoning. John decided this was as close to acquiescence as he could expect. Witnessing his brother’s morose expression, he crossed the room and placed a hand on George’s shoulder. “Isabella is bringing little John and Henry to the house later. They would like you to take them to catch frogs in the park.”

He was not sure if his brother would find this activity cheering or not, but it would have to do. With nary another word, John absconded to his favorite chair in the drawing room.

—

The next day, Henry and little John burst into Emma’s room at Harper House with their prize frog in tow just as she was finishing her toilette in preparation for the assembly. They hid behind her dresser as Isabella came careening behind them with Bella’s wail of alarm echoing down the hall. 

“Henry, John! You will come out this instant. I forbade you from ever bringing that creature into the house!” 

Emma looked down her nose at her nephews peeking out from behind the corner. “Do as your mother says. Take the frog outside.” 

John stamped his foot in protest. “We can’t leave Uncle outside. He’ll get cold and escape.” 

Emma blinked. “Uncle?” 

Henry held up the offending beast. “We named him after Uncle George who helped us catch him.” 

Watching her sister step back in disgust, Isabella laughed. “You know, Emma, in Bella’s fairy tales, if the princess kisses the frog, he turns into a prince.” 

Emma considered Uncle George for a moment and, with a somber expression, bent down to her nephews who continued to present the frog proudly. She leaned in close to whisper, her eyes wide, “Well, Dr. Werner told me that in the German version of the tale, the prince transforms when the frog is thrown against a wall!” 

John gasped and Henry withdrew his pet. “Aunt Emma, you would never!”

Emma laughed and placed a comforting hand on Henry’s head. “Of course not. We must take great care of Uncle George.” She placed a swift kiss on Henry’s thumb just next to the frog. “See? But alas, no prince for me today. And I’m sure you can find a good place for Uncle in the carriage house with a nice warm bucket and a bit of water.” 

The boys scurried off to find a home for the frog, and Isabella sighed in relief. “Thank you, Emma. They never listen to me, of course. I need you or George nearby to get them to do anything they’re meant to do. Are you sure you can’t stay until Henry’s tutor arrives in a few months?” 

“You know if I’m with them more than a fortnight I lose all authority, and besides, Father would never allow it,” Emma replied as she twisted her earrings into place. “You look lovely, Isabella. So lovely in fact, I do wonder if these assembly vouchers were truly acquired for Mr. Knightley’s benefit.” 

Rather than deny such accusations, Isabella looked about thoughtfully. “I will admit, when Dr. Werner told us that George should be exposed to greater society, John thought he meant the club while my thoughts tended more to a ball. When the Harpers wrote to offer us their place at Vauxhall as the season was running long, how could I resist?” 

Emma smiled at her sister’s innocent look. Despite Isabella’s nervous disposition, she had always dearly loved the opportunity to dance and had taught Emma to love a ball too. After her removal to London with John, Isabella would return home with all the latest steps to teach Emma. The sisters would spend hours in a mock-set with Miss Taylor at the pianoforte after Mr. Woodhouse retired for the evening. Mr. John Knightley, as a young man required to socialize in order to garner business, would always prove to be a willing practice partner. Mr. George Knightley was content to observe although he could be counted on to plunk out a tune when Miss Taylor fancied a turn.

Emma realized she had been fussing with her earring for far too long when Isabella asked, “Are you well, sister?” 

“Of course,” Emma said, forcing herself to brighten, “Merely a bit nervous. I am uncertain who will ask me to dance, and if I meet new acquaintances, perhaps they will find me unrefined.”

“Never, sister. And our friends, Mr. Churchill and Miss Fairfax, will be there. Surely Mr. Churchill will ask you to dance. And John will of course. Perhaps Mr. Knightley.” 

“Certainly not Mr. George Knightley,” Emma replied quickly with a dry smile, “Unless he was a great dancer in his youth, and you have neglected to tell me.” 

Isabella chuckled, “Indeed, he was not. But John said he was quite interested in the ‘fair-haired lady’ he met at the party. I think you have charmed him, Emma.” 

“Repulsed him with my insolence more likely. He seemed most distressed by my conversation though he was pleasantly engaged by Jane Fairfax. I believe Mr. Knightley enjoys a more patient, sweeter temperament than mine though I know he tolerates me well for the sake of our relations.”

“Please, Emma! You have always been of special regard to our George. Did he not ask to visit your family? Mrs. Weston was quite amused.”

“So he could inform my guardian—my brother or father—what a strange impression I make, no doubt.” 

Isabella fixed her sister with a long look-- one that Emma refused to meet. She seemed on the verge of asking a question when she thought better of it and said instead, “Come sister, John will have sent the carriage back for us. We shall see if we can find you a prince to dance with at the ball. No frogs required.” 

“I’m not sure I would wish to dance with any princes. Perhaps a marquess or a humble baron?” 

“You may have to settle for a knight.” Isabella took her sister’s arm with a wink.


	6. Chapter VI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a short chapter, but the one that follows will be a doozy! 
> 
> I definitely encourage those who haven't heard of it to head off to your favorite search engine to learn about the Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens. It was a fascinating place. 
> 
> Thank you all again for your comments! Half the fun of writing this is seeing the truly brilliant ideas and questions from those who are reading.

Emma had never seen anything like Vauxhall. 

Of course, she had never been anywhere outside of Highbury with the exception of Box Hill, and the less that was said about that the better. Thus far, her experience of London had been fascinating, but not necessarily surprising. The pieces of London she had seen were more or less analogous to what existed in Highbury—differing mainly in terms of scale and arrangement. A house was still a house, a market was a market, a square was a square. But never could she have imagined Vauxhall. 

It was something like a garden, something like a ball, and something like a fairyland. Isabella and Emma arrived just after dinner at half past nine—Isabella not wishing to partake in any public meal—and before the dancing began. They entered through the coach gate, a relatively new addition, but Emma could see other parties approach in small, lamp-lit row boats dotting the Thames. 

Isabella led her sister to the open and ornate orchestra building at the center of the gardens where the dancing would take place. The paper lamps that lined each of the walkways glowed, filling the night with warm light and even deeper shadows. Emma was enchanted by the swirl of color and movement before her as the first set began. She had never seen so many people in her life! Perhaps hundreds of gentlemen and ladies flooded the dance floor, more people than in the entirety of Highbury twice over, she thought.

“Come sister, let us find my husband and Mr. Knightley.” Isabella threaded Emma’s arm through hers and led her around the set. 

Among the rows of dancers, Emma caught Frank Churchill’s eye. He smiled broadly at her as he met Jane Fairfax in the middle of the floor for a turn. Looking over Frank’s shoulder, Jane too threw one of her rare, open smiles toward them before skipping down the line hand-in-hand with her betrothed. 

Emma suddenly felt very small, seeing how comfortable her friends were within the fray. Of course, Jane and Frank had each been to London many times before. They had been exposed to much wider circles than she. It was no wonder that Jane Fairfax had always seemed so reserved, so unimpressed with Highbury. Until this moment, Emma had never understood how insignificant Highbury must be to Jane, a mere country village hardly amounting to a town that she was duty-bound to visit annually as a kindness to her aunt. Even Isabella, who was nodding to acquaintances as they circled the floor, seemed entirely unaffected by the spectacle. Only Emma—usually so used to being the center of her own little world—felt lost among the crush of the Ton. 

And then, the sea of unfamiliar figures parted, and Mr. Knightley was before her. He was in his usual position: off to the side with the older husbands and fathers, his hands behind his back as he watched the dance with little interest. Finding him there was like being lost in the woods only to take a turn and see your home there in front of you. Before she quite knew what she was about, Emma loosened her grip on Isabella’s arm and stepped forward to greet him. 

Just as Emma leaned into his line of sight, she watched as he accidentally jostled a petite woman in a green dress who was so short she was below his line of sight. He turned to the woman to apologize and, to Emma’s horror, his face broke into a wide smile. 

“Sarah?” He took her hand. 

The woman laughed, “George.” 

Their familiarity was clear. Emma flushed with rage and, tugging on Isabella’s arm, she claimed falsely, “Oh I believe I see Mr. John Knightley over there.” 

She led her sister further back into the crowd, determined to enjoy Vauxhall and dance every single set if only to spite Mr. Knightley.

—

“You really have lost your memory!” Sarah said with an informal curtsy to George. 

George puzzled. “Why do you say that?” He thought he’d been doing rather well this evening. No one had mentioned his weakened mind so far. 

“You haven’t called me Sarah for years.” 

George considered, “Well, what do I call you now?” 

“Mrs. Callingham,” Sarah smiled happily with a nod to Cal across the floor. 

George started. “But you’re not that dull third daughter of an earl. I told John that’s who I expected Cal’s wife to be.” 

Sarah laughed again, “No, I am afraid not. A great disappointment to my mother-in-law initially, I believe, but even she has come around.” 

George looked over to Cal, talking emphatically to one of the oldest members of parliament who surely couldn’t hear a word he was saying. 

“That blaggard!” he said of his friend before turning back to Sarah, “It may be more recent in my memory than it is in yours, but you and I had an agreement.” He raised his index finger as he recalled somberly, “ _ You _ would partner with me in every dance in which I was obliged to participate, and  _ I  _ would save you from certain spinsterhood if it came to that. Thus saving us both from further society nonsense. You told me two more seasons, and you’d give me leave to name the date and purchase a special license—”

“As well as a house in town! You know I would have never retired to your drafty old farmhouse.” 

George chuckled at this characterization of Donwell. “I am very glad Cal finally came to his senses, and you did not have to endure a bleak existence as the wife of a country squire.”

Sarah rolled her eyes. “You may not feel it, but we are too old now to mince words, George Knightley. You know there are several pleasing young women who would have happily called your Abbey their home if you’d shown but an ounce of interest—though they’ve all quite given up on you now.”

No one had been so candid with him since he’d awoken at Brunswick Square. He tried to seem as incurious as possible. 

“So no feeble attempts at entrapment recently?” George examined his fingernails. 

Sarah was too smart for that. “I know I’m not supposed to tell you anything,” she began, but then gave an elegant little shrug, “However there is really nothing to tell. You are as determined as ever to appear as a hopeless bachelor, though I cannot speak to the goings-on in your little village that you are so fond of. Cal complains of seeing you less and less in London.”

George considered this. He thought of all the unknowns, all the variables he had yet to account for. The half-drawn portrait in his dresser drawer, the curious case of Jane Fairfax and her musical patron, the fair-haired woman and his undeniable interest in her, and now, of course, his home. What could be waiting for him there? Was he content in his evenings alone at Donwell or had he ever sought something else? 

“Do you think that I  _ am _ a hopeless bachelor, Mrs. Callingham?” He knew she would be honest.

Sarah looked up at him appraisingly. “If you were any other man, Mr. Knightley, I would say yes. You have been looking far too long for someone far too specific and yet also far too undefined.” George waited for the second part of her answer and was rewarded when her mouth quirked up into an affectionate half smile. “But because you are  _ you _ , I will say no. You are not hopeless.” 

“And what am I then?” 

“Exceedingly patient as always.” 

He nodded and bit back a laugh as Cal approached them. “I see you have finally discovered my good fortune, Knightley.” He took his wife’s hand and kissed it. 

“Indeed, Cal. But there is one more question I must ask before I can declare the mystery of your present happiness resolved. How many?” 

Cal was bewildered, but Sarah’s face was lit with joy as she answered. “Two. Two boys. Edward and James.” 

As Cal and Sarah regaled George with stories of their young sons—one bookish, one boisterous— a streak of gold and pink darted across the periphery. Shifting his gaze just over Cal’s shoulder, he spotted the fair-haired lady smiling broadly as she spun in the arms of another.


	7. Chapter VII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for your comments and encouragement! Very curious to hear what you all think of this chapter. :)

Emma danced the _Prince of Wales Cotillion_ with Mr. Churchill, and by the second part of the set she felt somewhat mollified. She found she danced just as well in London as she did in Highbury and felt less out of place in the company of her friend who was clearly delighted to partner with her. 

Her concerns regarding Mr. Knightley’s familiarity with this _Sarah_ were also placated when she saw Mr. Callingham join their tête-à-tête. By his proximity to the lady and their affectionate gazes at one another, Emma assumed they were married and, given their age, likely had been for some time. Mr. Knightley did not seem at all displeased by Mr. Callingham’s presence and continued to talk happily to them both. Still, she wished he did not find the conversation so very fascinating. Emma hoped Mr. Knightley would observe her dancing and was frustrated she could not catch his eye.

When the dance ended, Frank moved to escort her from the floor. “I am afraid, Miss Woodhouse, I must leave you for the next set as I have promised it to Jane. It will be our third dance of the evening.” 

Emma gasped theatrically. “What a scandal, Mr. Churchill. The gossips will think you’re engaged!” 

Frank gave her his most rakish grin. “Yes, I believe they will,” but then his expression grew serious, “But I cannot abandon you to the mercy of the crowd. Who can I leave you with safely?” He scanned the side of the ballroom, “Ah, Mr. Knightley!” 

Emma paled when Mr. Knightley turned. He was alone as Mr. Callingham and his wife had taken the floor. He smiled at them though his brow was furrowed in confusion.

Frank, of course, observed neither Mr. Knightley’s perplexity nor Emma’s hesitation. “Mr. Knightley, may I leave my fair partner with you? Though I am _loath_ to part with such an excellent dancer, I fear another has claimed my time.”

Mr. Knightley was staring at Mr. Churchill with clear distaste, his mouth pressed into a thin line, but Frank was too busy bowing over Emma’s hand to notice. Finally, as if desperate to stop Frank from further obsequious ceremony, he replied, “Certainly, sir. Please tend to your next appointment.” 

Frank straightened, “Thank you again Miss—” Emma opened her mouth to stop him, but Frank had caught himself just in time. He smiled apologetically, and Emma blushed and waved him away.

She and Mr. Knightley stood together in silence as the music started and the dancers took the floor. Emma tried to appear unmoved, but she could sense his gaze. Unable to bear it any longer, she met his eye. 

He studied her. “So it is _Miss._ Hmm?” 

Emma nodded as if it was of little concern, and they turned back toward the set. She desperately searched her mind for something neutral they could discuss until they were found by John or Isabella, but his nearness proved too distracting. Their position recalled too closely their last conversation at a ball in which he had shown his first inclination toward her friend. _Harriet Smith has some first-rate qualities, which Mrs. Elton is totally without,_ he had said, _I will do you the justice to say, that you would have chosen for Mr. Elton better than he has chosen for himself_.

And would Mr. Knightley correct that choice? Whom would he choose? Banishing the direction of her thoughts, Emma blurted out the first question she could think of—

“Do you not dance, Mr. Knightley?” _Worse and worse!_ Emma thought. Now he would think she was angling to be asked. 

He did not even look at her as he answered, “I do not care for it, I’m afraid.” 

Emma stared. It was one thing to not be asked to dance. It was quite another to—even inadvertently— imply one would look favorably on an invitation only to be denied. It was too much to bear, and if he had been in his right mind, Emma would have laughed at his audacity. The sheer ridiculousness of their situation came crashing down upon her. Emma pressed her lips together to swallow the torrent of unwelcome giggles that threatened to bubble forth, but it was no use. He noticed and was bemused by her humor.

“Does that disappoint you?” he asked, with a dry smirk. He knew very well the question was impertinent, but Emma refused to give him the satisfaction. 

“I _am_ disappointed, Mr. Knightley—” she replied, and he raised an eyebrow. “—But I am not at all surprised.” 

“I suppose that my willingness to dance has not increased in the past ten years?” 

Emma fixed him with her most haughty look and raised her chin. “I am unable to attest to the storied history of your unpardonable lack of dancing. However, I will have you know that very lately you danced twice at a ball, and I daresay you enjoyed it more than you expected.” 

“If I danced twice with _you_ then I suppose _I_ shall profess to be not at all surprised,” he countered with a smile that was much too charming for Emma’s liking. 

She felt herself falter, but carried on with as much confidence as she could muster, “Such gallantry. But, indeed you did not sir. You danced with me but once. And you were a much more accomplished dancer than any of us could have expected. One must imagine that you had been practicing alone at Donwell with Mrs. Hodges.” 

His smile disappeared, and Emma realized she had made a small misstep with potentially grave consequences. In her eagerness to make a clever quip, she had revealed how much she knew about him and Highbury. She could practically see the wheels of his mind turning, attempting to piece together how she might know the details of his home life. 

And Emma herself had a revelation: She was not quite ready to be found out. She did not wish to be revealed as his selfish, childish old friend. 

She changed the subject, hoping to redirect his thoughts. “I suppose there is much to do and see at Vauxhall besides dance.” 

His expression remained dark. “You seemed to enjoy dancing with your friend.” 

Emma’s heart swelled in triumph. He had noticed her. “Certainly, but I understand there are many fine vistas and even performers in other parts of the gardens.”

“It is your first time visiting Vauxhall then?” he asked, a bit of his smile returning, “And how are you finding it?” 

Emma’s instinct was to overstate her delight and enjoyment of the gardens—as surely that would be more fashionable— but found there was no reason to be dishonest. She could never lie to him with any success anyway. 

“It is overwhelming,” she said and his face softened into the kind, attentive visage she was more used to. He leaned toward her to listen closely, encouraging her to continue. “I admit I feel a bit adrift among so many people. I never know where to look or stand. I do love a ball, and Vauxhall is quite beautiful, but I would feel more comfortable in a smaller setting with my friends and family. Perhaps I _could_ become used to such a lively environment in time—” 

“I find I quite agree with you," he interrupted, eager to offer his support, "And I have been to the gardens many times. As much as I enjoy seeing dear friends and even the pageantry of the place, there is not a moment I wouldn’t prefer my old chair and my own fire or those of my neighbors in Surrey.” 

Emma found herself quite speechless. Here was her own Mr. Knightley, all renewed youthful artifice stripped away. She beamed at him, and, despite the din of conversation and the crowd that surrounded them, she felt at home. 

He looked suddenly wide eyed, vulnerable. “There are quieter places in Vauxhall. Perhaps you might allow me to show you the arches?” He nodded toward the path into the hedge garden. 

Caught off guard, Emma blinked in surprise at his request, and Mr. Knightley seemed to realize its potential impropriety. “Ah, John—” he called to his brother who had appeared nearby, “—I should like to show the lady the arches. The path is magnificent, is it not? Perhaps you and Isabella might walk with us?” 

The side of Emma’s mouth quirked up as John looked between his brother and herself. She and Mr. Knightley had been alone hundreds of times before, and John was clearly uninterested in needlessly playing chaperone. Anyone acquainted with them would understand they were old family friends and would assume nothing untoward. But of course, Mr. Knightley did not know that. 

John gave his reluctant acquiescence— “Yes, go ahead. Isabella and I will meet you at the entrance.”— and went to fetch his wife. He found her near the refreshments table with a glass of lemonade just as the next set began. 

“Come, Isabella!” he shouted over the music, “George wishes to show Emma the arches, and I’ve said we’ll go with them.”

Isabella set her glass down as she took her husband’s arm and asked for confirmation, “Our George wishes to show _Emma_ the arches?”

John nodded impatiently and pulled her toward the hedge path, but Isabella stood still. 

“My dear husband,” she said, gesturing to the dance floor, “I believe they’ve just called _Miss Townshend’s Favorite_. I haven’t danced that since before little Emma was born.”

John looked at her steadily. “You do not wish to take a turn in the garden with my brother and your sister?” 

“Oh no, John,” she steered him toward the lines of dancers, “Far too many black flies about in the hedge at this time of the evening. Full of disease, those flies, Dr. Wingfield says. I’m sure George and Emma will find them bothersome and return quickly.”

John narrowed his eyes, probing his wife’s intentions, but was met only with a look of firm placidity on Isabella’s part. Finally with a half-smile and a brief, “Of course, dear,” John allowed himself to be led to the well-lit set as Mr. Knightley and Emma entered the darkness of the hedge path.

—

They progressed slowly under the pretense of waiting for John and Isabella, but at some point, the possibility of their company fell away. George and the fair-haired lady continued deeper into the maze of hedges that led to the arches, and George was pleased to find she seemed quite comfortable unchaperoned in his company. There was nothing furtive about their walk together, no nervous glances or whispered conversation. They talked openly and pleasantly about her impressions of Vauxhall and London. She asked questions about the architecture and operations of the gardens. He shared his knowledge and contrasted the French manner of the pleasure garden with the less formal design and organization of Donwell.

As he described in florid detail his own grounds—the gentle slope, the avenue of limes—he suddenly stopped both his speech and his steps as he was met with an apprehension.

“But you are familiar with my estate already.”

She turned toward him, but would not look at him directly, choosing instead to examine closely the greenery of the hedges that lined their path. “Will the leaves of this plant change color in autumn, Mr. Knightley?” 

He knew she did not actually care for an answer to that question. “You are familiar with my housekeeper, Mrs. Hodges.” 

With an insolent little huff, she relented. “Yes, I have visited your estate.” 

He titled his head to find her gaze, refusing to allow her to turn away. “And how did you find it?” 

Her mouth twitched as she remembered. She seemed almost reluctant to respond, but he would not give her leave to speak of anything else. She finally confessed, “It is truly lovely—sweet to the eye and mind in true English fashion. English verdure and comfort, beauty without extravagance.” 

He sighed roughly and his jaw tightened in frustration. She took a small step toward him, wishing to assuage his disappointment. 

“You disagree with my assessment?” she asked, concerned. 

“On the contrary,” George began, his look full of resolve, “It is exactly how I would wish it described.” He paused, uncertain he should continue. “It is also how I would describe you.”

Her eyes searched his, and they both knew what he would ask next. He reached out to gently grasp her arm, just above where her glove ended. The warmth of her skin was an anchor, and it bolstered him just enough to beg for clarity:

“Who are you?” 

She swallowed and stepped closer to him still, allowing his hand to wrap more fully around her elbow. She hesitatingly raised her other hand and traced the scar at his temple, gently pushing back his hair in the process. “You must try to remember, Mr. Knightley. I am certain you will not find me half so interesting when you do.” 

He found himself leaning into her touch. “I fear we are at odds again. For I am certain that is impossible.” 

She breathed out a laugh and bit her bottom lip, drawing his gaze downward to her mouth. His forehead tilted toward hers, and he could have sworn she angled her face up to meet his when—

A loud _crack_ followed by a series of explosions resounded around them. The lady leapt backward with a shriek nearly tipping over into the hedge. George caught her hand and helped her restore her balance, letting go once she was fully upright. 

“Thank you.” Even in the moonlight, he could see her blush. 

“They’re fireworks,” he explained as the sky lit up again, and she smiled in understanding. She craned her neck to look for them, her mouth charmingly agape. 

“Shall I take you see them?” 

She agreed. Finally, he briskly escorted her to their original destination, the open avenue of the arches, and then toward the river where the fireworks were clearly visible. A crowd had gathered at the edge, and he maneuvered them to the front. Another firework screamed upward. Her eyes grew wide, and her face transformed as a girlish grin broke across her features. He watched her gasp and marvel as different colors and shapes exploded into the sky, their reflection shimmering in the Thames. Her joy was infectious. He was certain he had never felt so content and basked in his ability to bring this radiant woman happiness, to have her hand tucked into the crook of his arm. 

As the pace of the blasts began to accelerate toward a finale, his heart dropped. The evening was nearly over. He would lose her.

“I am leaving for Donwell in two days,” he said quietly.

In the intermittent darkness, her expression grew solemn. He lowered his head toward her ear so she could hear him over the boom and crash. “I should like to see you again.” 

“You will,” she replied, turning her face toward his. Their noses were inches apart. 

George moved to take her hand again, but stopped short. She was not his to claim. In fact, she seemed completely unclaimable—belonging so securely, it seemed, to herself. “But I don’t know your name or how to find you.” 

“You will,” she said again, laughing. 

He frowned. “You seem very confident in your predictions.” 

“Indeed, I always am, Mr. Knightley.” Her lips came together again in that smirk that confused him so greatly. “You cannot avoid me, I’m afraid.” 

George’s brows knitted together. “Why on earth would I ever wish to?” 

In the fleeting light of the fireworks, he thought he saw something like sorrow or longing flit across her features, but when the sky lit up again, it was gone. She removed her hand from his arm and briefly curtsied to him. 

“Good evening, Mr. Knightley. Thank you for showing me the gardens.” 

By the time he had straightened from his bow, she had turned away. The light from the fireworks faded, allowing her to disappear into the dark mass of the _ton_. George had a thought to call after her, and for a moment, her name was on his lips only to disappear from his mind again before he could form a single syllable.


	8. Chapter VIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you as always for your very kind comments! I'm glad everyone enjoys the yearning and the tension as much as I do because we have more of that coming our way. The comments and responses truly make my day, and I thank you all for enjoying the story with me during such a tumultuous time. Happy holidays to those who are celebrating this week! I'm hoping to get one more chapter (beyond this one) out before Christmas. :)

Thursday was bursting with activity as George and John prepared to leave Brunswick Square. John was to visit Donwell for at least a week to shadow his brother as George renewed his understanding of the Abbey and its tenants. 

Isabella and the children vacated the Harper House for their own, but their return home was to be brief. As soon as the carriage had safely delivered George and John to Donwell, it was to circle back for Isabella and the children, transporting the family to Hartfield the following day. The rapidity of the turnaround seemed too difficult for John’s groomsmen. George insisted he could be trusted to ride his own horse _carefully_ in fine weather, but Isabella wouldn’t hear of it. 

The complexity of logistics sowed chaos in the Knightley household. Uncle George the Frog was discovered by one of the lady’s maids who promptly sent half of Isabella’s fine silver crashing to the floor. Henry and John assisted with packing by thoroughly examining all of George’s personal effects as each item was placed in the trunk. After George’s wardrobe was pressed and put away twice over, the older children were herded into the nursery, and the Knightley brothers settled into the library. It was then, in the quiet of the evening, George was presented with two Knightleys he did not remember meeting, Little George, a lively two-year-old (“and a half” he quickly clarified), and Baby Emma. 

George held his niece as his youngest nephew regaled him with dramatic escapades involving his toy soldier and brave battles against Bella’s bedraggled dolls. 

“Does your soldier have a horse?” George asked his namesake as he bounced Baby Emma in his arms. Little George shook his head sadly. “Every good soldier should have a horse. Perhaps for Christmas?” 

Little George brightened and clambered onto the settee next to his uncle. “Aunt Emma says I may have a whole regiment of soldiers if I am on my best behavior.”

“Oh yes?” George asked, remembering Emma’s impertinence as a child, “And what does your Aunt Emma think qualifies as best behavior?” 

His nephew was thoughtful for a moment. “Listening to Mama, being kind to Bella and Baby Emma, and going to bed when Nanny says.” This all sounded a bit too peaceable for the Emma with whom George was familiar, and so he was unsurprised when his nephew added, “And to be brave when Henry and John tease me. I am to tell them to ‘go jump in a pond!’” 

George laughed and tossed Baby Emma a little higher. He was about to ask for further detail on Aunt Emma’s instructions when Isabella entered the room. 

“George!” she demanded, and both Georges whipped around at her tone. She sighed, “Not you George Knightley, only Little George. You must go to the nursery this instant. We shall have a busy tomorrow! And you know very well Grandpapa will not appreciate your being ill-tempered when we arrive.” 

Little George shot his uncle a pleading look. George winked and reminded his nephew, “Remember the regiment.” With a last shy smile, Little George shuffled off toward his awaiting nursemaid. 

Isabella approached her brother, her arms out. “I’m afraid I’ve come for this one as well.”

George stood to gently hand the child to her mother. “She is beautiful, Isabella. And I am sure she will be just as clever and lively as her aunt. Though perhaps not so spoiled.”

“She will be more spoiled than any living creature due to your and Emma’s influence,” Isabella said. “You both do far too much for the children.” 

He smiled at the thought. It was pleasing to think that he and young Emma had become a united front, joined by the common purpose of thoroughly indulging their nieces and nephews. 

“I am looking forward to seeing Emma at Hartfield,” George mused, giving his niece a final pat across her blonde curls. At his declaration, John peered curiously over the edge of his newspaper. Isabella merely smiled, silently. George looked between them both. 

“She is still at Hartfield, is she not?” he asked with hesitation. He had a vision of Emma, with her white-blond hair and lanky frame draped in lace, being handed into a carriage by some Byron-esque fop.

Isabella looked to her husband, waiting for him to choose whether or not to inform George. John answered simply, “Yes, you will find her at Hartfield.” 

George nodded as if it was no matter, declining to comment on his brother’s odd phrasing. He had had quite enough of mysteries, and he would see Emma and her father soon enough. In fact, he found he missed Hartfield’s cozy fires and even Emma’s endless prattle. Perhaps he was becoming sentimental in his old age. 

The following morning, George and John embarked for Donwell. As the day was bright and the air was mild, the brothers were content to ride with the top lifted. George hoped that the attractions of the English countryside might be engaging enough to distract John from any conversation. In the tumult of the previous day, they had not had the opportunity to discuss Vauxhall or the fair-haired lady, and George had no wish to. 

He himself did not know his own feelings on the matter. Or, more accurately, his feelings were so at odds with one another, he could come to no conclusion with any certainty. 

He felt a gentlemanly guilt that he had behaved so intimately with a lady, but he rejoiced in her gentle touch and open smiles. He ached to know how he might see her again. Yet, their time amidst the light of the fireworks had been so close to perfect, perhaps reality would only serve to spoil. He knew he must be making a great blockhead of himself— whether he remembered his age or not, the lady was at least ten years younger than he— but they had conversed as equals and as friends. 

He liked her. In that respect, it was simple. In their brief acquaintance, she challenged him and vexed him like no other woman had before, and George found he quite enjoyed it. But that geniality did not explain the pull he felt toward her. He was drawn in, a moth to a flame. Or perhaps they were drawn together—like magnets—as he dared to hope their regard might be mutual. His heart beat quicker at the thought. Just before he left Brunswick Square, he had removed the half-drawn portrait of a woman from his bureau and tucked it into his breast pocket, a sort of talisman.

Amiable silence persisted through the first hour of their journey. George was beginning to slip into a doze brought on by his heavy thoughts amidst the sun and heat, but John disrupted the tranquility of the afternoon.

“And how did you find Vauxhall?” 

George remained in his relaxed posture, eyes closed, feet resting on the seat across. “Enjoyable, I suppose. At least there is more to do at Vauxhall than dance or watch other people dance. There were a few new water features since I last attended, but it is not very altered.” 

“Mmm,” John responded, and for a moment, George thought he was safe. But his brother was a barrister and never one to give up a fruitful line of questioning. “I saw you speaking with Cal and Sarah Callingham. How are your old friends?” 

George opened one eye. “You are asking if I was surprised to find they are married, are you not?” 

John merely smiled, sphinx-like, and George sat up to answer, “They seem very happy. I always knew they would be if Cal stopped toiling away while attempting to court some baron’s daughter who could make him Prime Minister.” 

His brother raised an eyebrow. “So no disappointment there?” 

“None at all,” George said definitively, resuming his prone position. 

Some minutes past before John, again, broke in, “I was sorry that Isabella and I were unable to join you on your walk through the shrubbery with our _friend._ Isabella had her heart set on a dance, and when we went to find you after, it seemed you had disappeared. I wanted to apologize for abandoning you during the ride home, but then you offered Mr. Hadley a place in our carriage, and we could not speak freely.” 

“It is no matter,” George said with a casual shrug of his shoulders. “I escorted the lady to the river to see the fireworks, and then she departed.” 

“Ah,” John idly picked at a thread on the sleeve of his coat, “And did you make any interesting detours along the way?” 

George leaned forward slowly, forcing John to meet his gaze. His brother could not control the teasing grin that spread across his features as George fixed him with his sternest expression. “We walked through the arches to the Thames where we stood in full view of a large portion of the _ton_.”

“Of course,” John said with a sober nod. 

The conversation lulled and both brothers faced outward toward the rolling hills of Surrey. George tried to focus on the countryside as it passed and the health of this year’s wheat plantings until he could bear it no more. There was one question he must ask. 

“John, I beg you to tell me—” his brother sat tall, alert after hearing the urgency in his voice, “If I were to meet her again, is there any reason the lady and I should not— that is to say—with the utmost respect and following only appropriate avenues—detour?” 

John was quiet, considering the question for what felt like hours to George, but was surely mere seconds. Finally he looked directly at his brother and concluded, “No, not at all.” 

George sighed in relief, laid back against the cushions of the bench, and pulled his hat over his eyes, allowing his dreams to drift with less resistance to fingertips covered in silk and the sharp pinch of a well-honed wit. 

He was jolted awake not three hours later as their carriage turned off the main road into Highbury. Making their way through the village to Donwell Road, they passed Cole's stately home, even larger and more modern than he remembered. In the distance, he could see Randalls, which now seemed to be occupied and well-cared for. And finally, as they neared the turnoff to Donwell, Hartfield appeared. George observed with pleasure the square, well-arranged structure. His friend Woodhouse would brook no disorder. Smoke rose from the chimney, for of course, they would have a fire in the middle of summer. Even the slightest chill could not be risked.

Not ten minutes later, they had arrived at Donwell, utterly unchanged with the exception of a few newly active plots on the west side. Mrs. Hodges, a little grayer and a little stouter, stood on the steps to greet them. 

“Mr. Knightley, Mr. John Knightley, we are very glad you have arrived safely.” She spoke formally as always, but her hands were clasped tight with worry as her eyes flicked toward George’s temple. 

George stepped forward, taking her hands in his own. “As am I, Mrs. Hodges. It was a much longer journey than I expected, and I have never been more happy to be at home.”

She would not be eased by his pretty words. “I wish you would not insist on traveling alone in all kinds of weather. Ever since you were a boy, I have been anxious that your riding would be the death of you.” 

Mrs. Hodges ushered the Knightleys into the Abbey, and while George removed his hat, she looked more closely at the abrasion on his forehead. 

“I must say, it is quite terrible, Mr. Knightley.” 

He self-consciously touched the wound, briefly remembering the hesitating fingertips that had ghosted his skin two nights ago. “I assure you, Mrs. Hodges, every doctor in London has had their fill of poking and prodding, and they have all determined that I am healing remarkably well.” 

Her brows knitted together. She was far from assured. “You should have Mr. Perry examine it.”

After his hat and coat were swept away, he was obliged to follow Mrs. Hodges down Donwell’s twisting hallways. She listed what had been done in his absence and what must be done now, upon his return. George heard little of it and understood even less as he immersed himself in the Abbey. The smell of his father’s books, the cool darkness of the paneled walls, even the clip of his boots down the corridor all served to restore his confidence and his very sense of self. What needed to be accomplished would be accomplished. Donwell would have a successful harvest. His memory would return. The lady would be found. George Knightley was home. 

—

Emma Woodhouse was experiencing no such renewal of her own. From the morning after Vauxhall until the evening of the following day, she had worked tirelessly with both household staffs to ensure that any sign of the Knightleys’ stay was removed from the Harper residence. Thursday night was spent writing urgent missives to Serle and Miss Bates, who along with her mother had been kindly caring for Mr. Woodhouse, so that Hartfield might be prepared to receive the five little Knightleys and Isabella. Finally alone at the Harper House and in her bed, Emma was able to reflect on Mr. Knightley and on the last hour she had spent at Vauxhall. 

In regards to her appearance, Emma was not a vain woman, but she was aware she was beautiful. It was a trait she did not particularly value except for its convenience. Perhaps she was less elegant than Miss Fairfax or less modish than Mrs. Elton, but she was handsome enough to remain in command of their little set in Highbury. She supposed it was this beauty in combination with the amity between them that had so interested Mr. Knightley. Perhaps he could sense that he had been in love before his fall and had settled upon her as the most likely object.

He would remember, of course. He would remember a sweet, charming young woman with a good nature and kind heart, a woman worthy of him. That is, he would remember Harriet Smith. He would remember more fully Jane Fairfax’s dedication and accomplishment. And then he would remember Emma, her stubbornness, her selfish nature, her ridiculous flirtation with Frank Churchill, and her rudeness to Miss Bates. 

Under the light of the fireworks, Emma had felt what it might be like to be peculiarly and exclusively loved by Mr. Knightley, and that must serve to satisfy her. She hoped he would forgive her for those moments at Vauxhall, moments that were innocently taken. They would be her only experience of romance. She could never marry, could never leave her father, and she would never feel for another man what she felt for Mr. Knightley. 

When he inevitably discovered her in Highbury, she was determined to continue to work to reestablish their rapport, and when his memory was restored, she hoped he would recall their friendship. There was little she could do about Harriet—love would take its course, she had learned—but at least she and Mr. Knightley could be friends once more. And that might just be enough.


	9. Chapter IX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas for those celebrating! Thank you as always for the wonderful comments, and I hope this chapter satisfies. :)

On Saturday, George awoke with the sense of a riddle. The riddle was a mystery in and of itself. He felt somehow that he would already know the answer if he could but remember the question. He saw the shape of the riddle, but not its contents. It was a state he had become somewhat accustomed to since the loss of his memory—he often felt the impression of a thought before it reappeared—but never had a shadow of question, this phantom of a fact, pulled so strongly at the corners of his conscious thought. 

One clue as to its substance, he thought as he descended the stairs for breakfast, was that he was to pay a visit to his tenant farmers today before walking to Hartfield for dinner. He knew that, among all aspects of estate management, his relationship with his tenants would be the most impacted by his weakened mind. He was certain that in the past decade plots had turned over and rates had been renegotiated. While he had always trusted the farmers on his land, it would be inappropriate to ask them to name their current terms. 

Luckily with him was, as was always with him and was with his father, William Larkins. As they traversed Donwell’s fields, Larkins ensured that George was equipped with all the necessary figures, but nothing more, allowing his younger master to draw his own conclusions. The older tenants were more than eager to show Master George, as they still called him nearly fifteen years after his father’s death, their decade of progress, and his newer tenants seemed responsible and content. 

It was with some sadness, but also pride that he met Mr. Robert Martin, the son of the late gentleman farmer of the same name. Despite being rather plain spoken, Robert was clearly sharp and ambitious. Abbey Mill Farm had grown twice over in the past ten years. There had been significant renovations to the farmhouse itself, and George was glad to see that Mrs. Martin and the two Misses Martins lived there quite comfortably. He felt some surprise that a new, young Mrs. Robert Martin had not joined their cozy home. Robert was four and twenty and didn’t seem the type to dilly dally. There was ample space, and surely the sisters would soon depart for marriages and houses of their own. He said as much to Robert as they surveyed a wheat field. 

“I’m afraid while the farm remains prosperous, and we were hopeful,” Robert replied with a pained look, “there have been some setbacks in that one area.” 

George was surprised. Who could have rejected such a respectable, intelligent gentleman-farmer? “I am sure anyone who did not have the good sense to accept your suit is no great loss.” 

Robert examined his boots. “I’m afraid I cannot agree with you, sir.”

He was sorry to have reminded his friend of an unwelcome subject, but perhaps the situation was not as hopeless as the young man believed it to be. George clapped Robert on the arm. “Your father was a persistent man, Robert. I’m sure if there is something or some _ one _ worth fighting for, you will follow his example?” 

Robert laughed, “I do try, Mr. Knightley.”

George smiled warmly at the young man. “I have given you this advice before, haven’t I?” 

“Yes, but it is no less true than it was then.” Robert politely returned the smile, but his eyes remained sorrowful. They returned to the house and said no more.

Though the visits to his tenants had given him much to ponder, the riddle returned to the forefront of his mind as he dressed for an early dinner with the Woodhouses and the rest of the Knightleys. As he tied his cravat, he turned it over in his mind the way one would inspect a puzzle box. Perhaps it was to do with Hartfield. He had not seen Woodhouse in the weeks since his fall, and George knew that the good sir’s anxiety for his health would be piqued. George very much doubted that a great deal had changed at Hartfield. One of Mr. Woodhouse’s defining characteristics was his well-known and noisy aversion to change, generously tolerated by all who loved him. With Isabella and, even more recently, Mrs. Weston’s removal from Hartfield due to their respective marriages, George doubted the gentleman would have allowed for any further modifications to his household. 

George met his brother in the foyer, and John called for their hats and walking sticks before they embarked. 

“I believe for the sake of Woodhouse’s nerves, we should arrive on foot. Isabella tells me his letters have contained nothing but a thorough condemnation of travel by horseback since you fell. Though it is rather a long walk.”

“Nonsense, John,” George said, “Though you may eschew a good stroll in London, I will have continued my frequent walks to Hartfield, I am very sure of it. It is not even two miles if you cut through the glen. We walked to Hartfield practically daily when you lived here, particularly as you courted Isabella.” 

John looked shrewdly at his brother. “I suppose it is a short walk for a man in love.” 

George tugged his hat onto his head. “As your dear wife is staying with her father, you have your motivation. I will have to enjoy the exercise for its own merits.” 

Saying nothing, John smiled at his brother and gestured for him to lead the way. 

They walked in genial silence. It seemed like years to George since he had trod the well worn path due to some combination of his memory loss and the weeks he had spent in London. As they traversed the distance, the mystery tugged again at his musings. He remembered, it had been blisteringly hot when he had left Highbury, had it not? He seemed to recall a miserable, humid heat, a sense of listlessness and irritability. This path had not given him any pleasure the last time he had taken it, he felt with certainty.

Since then, the weather had changed and Surrey’s lush pastures were at their finest. It was a cool afternoon for midsummer. The clean smell of the grass and country air seemed to serve to clarify the clouded passages of George’s mind, and the familiarity of his surroundings gave him the confidence to explore what was revealed. As he looked into the sharp reflection of the sun on the barley fields, he saw white light fade to golden under a passing cloud. The soft brush of a leaf was like silk underneath his fingertips. In the brook that ran through the glen he heard laughter. The sudden crack of a branch underfoot was a challenge. In the warmth of the clearing, he felt a sly, assured smile. 

Hartfield came into view, and he began to put two and two together. Or not two and two, but one and one: one riddle of a woman and one answer. He could hardly have given definition to his thoughts, but it was as if a stone had been thrown into the still waters of his memories and now, as the ripples began to dissipate, he could see what—or  _ who _ —was reflected. Who else could have become so important in his life, that her memory was shrouded, protected more dearly than all others’? Even now as he uncovered pieces of her identity and fitted them into place, the full details of their history remained hidden in the dark recesses he had not reached. Yet he knew her before, he had met her anew, and she had left an indelible impression on him over and over again as he imagined she always would.

By the time John knocked, George had his riddle and its solution. They were welcomed into Hartfield warmly by Serle who insisted on examining his fading abrasion. 

“Has Mr. Perry seen it?” she asked.

Serle ushered them into the family parlor where Mr. Woodhouse greeted the Knightleys from his usual chair. George thought he looked nearly the same as he remembered, which was less a compliment to the present Woodhouse and more indicative that the dear man had looked elderly for the past twenty years. He beckoned George to the seat closest to him and tutted over his injury. 

“I would never recommend travel on horseback, Mr. Knightley. You must take your carriage to London in the future! If you suppose you must go at all. Your cut looks very bad indeed. You should take care it is not infected.”

“I believe it has already begun to heal, sir, and there is no danger of that.” 

“Hmm,” he would not agree, “And has Perry seen it?”    


George couldn’t help but laugh, and as he did, the door behind him opened with a loud creak. The shuffle of short footsteps echoed through the room. Little John, Henry, and Bella ran to their father. 

“My dears,” Mr. Woodhouse greeted his daughters as they followed behind the children, “It feels as though we’ve travelled back in time. I have you both back here at home where you belong. And look at the callers we’ve received this afternoon.” 

George stood, but did not turn to acknowledge the newcomers as he knew he must. He paused for a moment in preparation. His brother, observing his reaction with interest, caught George’s eye and offered a reassuring nod. He did his best to remove any emotion from his expression as he finally turned to face her, but when he saw the question in her look, he could not help the broad smile that overtook him.

“My dear Emma.” He bowed to the fair-haired lady. 

“Mr. Knightley.” She sighed with relief.

Dr. Werner had said that before his memories were fully recovered, he would remember his habits first, his sentiments second, and his opinions third. George supposed this order was correct, but in this case, he reached clarity on a related set of all three at once: 

This was why he walked to Hartfield everyday. He was in love with Emma Woodhouse. And he was a fool.


	10. Chapter X

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy nearly New Years! Wishing you all a lovely end (thank goodness!) of a very odd year. 
> 
> Thank you so much for your comments on the last chapter! In a way this is the unofficial beginning of Part II since George is finally aware of the identity of his fair-haired tormentor. I hope you enjoy the new possibilities this knowledge opens up-- although the way is not clear for our leads just yet. ;)

Emma gestured for Mr. Knightley to sit in his chair. She wondered if he remembered it was _his_ chair. As she herself sat, she felt it difficult to look at anything but Mr. Knightley, just where he ought to be. Suddenly, Vauxhall seemed hundreds of miles away instead of just sixteen. Had they not sat in these same positions—without Isabella and John—just three weeks earlier? And yet, Emma’s feelings were so altered from what they were then. She was so focused on his long, elegant fingers brushing back hair from his brow, that she did not notice how intently he was returning her stare. 

“I trust your journey from London was uneventful?” he asked her directly, an eyebrow raised. It was as though Mr. Knightley had cut the cards to begin a particularly high-stakes round of cribbage.

“I am not sure any journey with five children can qualify as uneventful,” Emma tried to keep her voice playful, “But we arrived in good time, or so Isabella tells me.” She looked to her sister, begging for assistance. 

“It was very kind of Emma to come to London and assist me with the children during Mr. George Knightley’s _brief_ illness,” Isabella explained. Though her words were context for Mr. Knightley’s benefit, she looked toward her father. They were all meant to infer that they would discuss Mr. Knightley’s weakened mind as little as possible with Mr. Woodhouse present. 

“And we are very glad you are back, my dear. Perhaps we can agree that you need never travel again?” Mr. Woodhouse reached for his daughter’s hand, patting it lovingly. 

Emma smiled gently at her father though she was sure the expression did not reach her eyes. “I think that we can all promise to forever return to Hartfield safe and sound, as we have today! You see, even our Mr. Knightley is back and next to your fire with just the smallest scrape.” 

Mr. Woodhouse peered at Mr. Knightley. “And your mind, Mr. Knightley? In Emma’s letters, she said you were having trouble with your recollection.” 

He smiled warmly at her father. “A very little trouble, sir. And indeed, it should be no trouble at all for two of us! Is there anything you and I like to discuss more than the events of ten years ago?” 

The older man chuckled, and the subject of Mr. Knightley’s peril was dropped. Emma marveled at him as he talked quietly with her father. He was always so good, so respectful of Mr. Woodhouse's idiosyncrasies. As her father described with great detail the menu he had served while the Bates were present, Mr. Knightley’s gaze drifted from father to daughter. His eyes remained bright, but narrowed slightly. His jaw tightened. Emma knew this look well. He was deciding whether he ought to be angry or amused. It was a conundrum in which she often, quite intentionally, placed him. His lips quirked upward. Amusement had won out for now.

Supper proceeded shockingly normally— the same party around the same table as had dined together perhaps hundreds of times. After the meal, they convened in the parlor for cards, brandy, and tea. Mr. Woodhouse retired quickly; just a few hours with the young Knightleys had left him exhausted. Isabella excused herself to put the children to bed. And suddenly Emma found herself in a warm, dimly lit parlor with Mr. John Knightley, whose head was stuck in a book, and Mr. Knightley, absently shuffling and straightening the playing cards. Emma could feel her cheeks flush as she watched his hands compulsively cut, twist, and shuffle the deck. She needed to clear her head. 

“I believe I shall take a turn about the garden before I retire. Do you both plan to stay long?” 

John Knightley responded without looking up and having only half-heard her, “I am nearly done reading this essay. George, why don’t you accompany Emma on her walk? Make sure we can report to Woodhouse that she carried a sufficient number of shawls.”

Emma opened and closed her mouth, trying to find a motive for taking the air unaccompanied, but before she could contrive a reason, Mr. Knightley had stood and opened the door to the garden. He gestured for her to proceed. “After you.” 

Emma grabbed her shawl and hurried past him outdoors. 

As they walked side-by-side in the evening light, their positions recalled almost exactly their tour of Vauxhall. Emma wrapped her stole more tightly around her person though the air was pleasantly warm. She kept her eyes fixed to the ground as she waited for him to speak. And when they were a little ways down the path, he finally did.

“I am glad to find you here, Miss Woodhouse.” 

Emma’s head snapped upward to look at him, her eyes wide, her mouth in a deep frown. He was amused by her clear revulsion, but she was deadly serious: “Please never call me that again.” 

He laughed, “‘Miss Woodhouse?’ You are no longer Miss Emma. What should I call you?” 

Her eyes returned to the grass, “My Christian name, of course. Just _Emma_ will do.” 

“But you call me _Mr._ Knightley— even now!” he argued. 

Emma gestured helplessly. “Yes of course. It is part of our charming dynamic.” 

Mr. Knightley nodded, worrying his lower lip, but said nothing more. They continued walking. 

“I fear you are angry with me again,” Emma confessed as they rounded the corner of the garden. 

He looked at her, trying for a fuller view of her face than it suited her to give. “Am I often angry with you?” 

She stopped then, facing him entirely. “You still do not remember? But you seemed to know me— as I am now—before I entered the room. You were not surprised.” 

“No,” he began, suddenly fascinated with his cuffs, “I was not surprised. Somewhere between Donwell and Hartfield, I found that I knew who you are. A day at home has helped my progress more than London ever could. My mind feels more relaxed, able to wander and explore.” He paused and even in the dim light, Emma could see he had colored slightly. She wondered why—what or _whose_ memory might have unsettled him. He continued, “But the larger events, the happenings, so to speak, of the last ten years are still beyond me. Dr. Werner said my habits and feelings would return first. I remember the path to Hartfield. I remember you—and I sense our friendship.”

 _Friendship_ , Emma thought bitterly. Even if he had not wished to, he had rallied her defenses. He had merely remembered his warm feelings towards his old friend and neighbor, spoiled and fanciful Emma. The moment in the hedges had indeed been a dream. 

She tried to resume the light tenor of their conversation before. “Then your last memories of me are still of my childhood follies?” They resumed their slow amble through the garden. “I assure you, Mr. Knightley, there are plenty of more recent follies for you to uncover. I believe you’ll wish to scold me all over again.” 

His lips pressed into a small smile, and he raised an eyebrow at this. “I may not have all of my memories _yet_ , but I feel more certain now that I will. And in the case of you and your follies, though I cannot recall our past interactions in great detail, I know where we started, I see where we are now, and that is enough for me to somewhat understand the throughline.” 

Emma did not know exactly what he meant by this, and she wasn’t sure she wished to. It sounded ominous. They were beginning to grow nearer to the house, and through the glass she saw John talking to the footman, presumably requesting his and Mr. Knightley’s hats and walking sticks. She slowed her pace. There was still the urgent need to somehow explain her behavior in London without revealing her feelings for him so they could start anew. She wasn’t sure how to begin so she began anyway with a silent prayer the words would follow. 

“Mr. Knightley, I am truly sorry I was not able to be more forthright with you in London. I’m sure you must have presumed that I was very forward, but I felt it was important for us to speak openly as we always have. I hope you do not think me untruthful in any respect.”

She had to stifle a gasp when he stopped, turned, and took her hand. “Not at all. I am cognizant of the awkwardness my illness creates for my friends, and I am grateful for your efforts. Do not look so worried, Emma—” He lightly squeezed her fingers—“You never lied to me. Although I do not entirely believe I danced twice at a ball.”

She laughed, “I assure you, you did! And with surprising skill.”

For a moment they were still, her hand in his, and Emma basked in the glow of his regard. But it was not to last. John knocked on the window, Mr. Knightley dropped her hand, and they returned to the parlor. Though Emma could not claim a great deal of clarity from their conversation, she felt assured of his good opinion. 

“Will we see you tomorrow, Mr. Knightley?” she asked as he tugged on his hat.

An almost rakish glint appeared in his eye. “You cannot avoid me, I’m afraid,” he answered, recalling her words at Vauxhall. 

Unable to muster a response, Emma curtsied, and with a tip of his hat, he and John departed for Donwell. 

—

George proceeded home at a rapid clip. Less used to country walks than his brother, John struggled to keep up and found it downright impossible to make conversation. However, once they reached the more even path adjacent to Donwell Road, John finally caught his breath.

“Well?” he demanded of his brother.

“Well what?” George’s face was frustratingly and decidedly neutral. 

John gestured backwards toward Hartfield. “Your fair-haired lady, your Vauxhall mystery, is Emma Woodhouse! And you have nothing to say about it?” 

“Not to _you._ ” George marched even more forcefully toward the Abbey which loomed to the east. 

“Not to me?” John said, taking a few hurried steps in order to see his brother’s face, “But you might have something to say to _her_? I saw the way you looked at her in the garden.” 

George refused to face John’s harried expression. “I am certain my feelings are unchanged from before my fall.” He impatiently brushed back the hair near his scar at his temple. “But I am far from certain of _Emma’s_ feelings. There is history there I still cannot remember. We have known each other for her whole life. I must proceed carefully. Perhaps, in time, I might gain her affections.” 

John rolled his eyes. “You’ve always been so missish about love, George. How do you plan to court Emma Woodhouse? Visit her everyday? Seek her out at parties? Secret her away for little private conversations? I do not like to reveal much to you, but as you are beginning to remember your habits, you must realize you do all of that already.” 

“Perhaps I might try being less frequently provoked by her, as she implies I often am.” 

“I am not sure that is practical, as she shall remain vexing, and, indeed, I believe she delights in vexing you.” John sighed, shaking his head, “This will be a very subtle campaign of yours, brother.” 

George laughed bitterly. “I have waited this long,” George said, his chin lowered and his jaw set. John was almost awed by the determination etched in his older brother’s face. “And luckily,” George continued with a dry smile, “I have been told I am exceedingly patient.”


	11. Chapter XI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy nearly new year! Thank you so much for the comments on the last chapter-- they truly truly make my day/week/2020. I am particularly gratified by all the John Knightley love, and if you haven't read the novel, I encourage you to read it so you can experience fully his insight and sass. 
> 
> I should also note, I do occasionally borrow or paraphrase lines from the novel. Often Jane Austen already wrote something I want to write better than I could ever express it. I've borrowed particularly liberally in this chapter as the novel has several wonderful paragraphs on Emma's confusion and anguish over Harriet and Mr. Knightley's potential attachment.

In the days that followed, Emma’s life resumed its usual rhythm. Of course, with the children present, Hartfield was very lively—full of their shrieks and laughter— but Emma’s duties as Mistress of Hartfield resumed. There were grocery orders to be written, alterations to the garden to be reviewed, stables to be maintained, and a small plot of farmland to be managed. Indeed, given her two weeks’ absence, and with her father distracted by the children and Mrs. Weston’s condition, it seemed there was more than ever to do at Hartfield. 

Luckily, she had a trusted helpmeet in her endeavors. Mr. Knightley visited each day, either for breakfast or for supper, ostensibly with the purpose of spending time with the young Knightleys. But Emma knew better; he came for her father. He spent most of his time at Hartfield at the desk in the parlor writing Mr. Woodhouse’s letters, checking their accounts, and approving plans for the fall harvest. It was necessary for him to ask an occasional question to understand the household’s current investments and properties, but his mind moved with alacrity. Soon he knew the Hartfield estate nearly as well as any Woodhouse. 

“Who manages the northern textile portfolio, and, remind me, what is the annuity?” he asked, his quill poised over a list of investments. 

Emma replied swiftly, “That would be Mr. Lerner in Manchester, and I believe it is five percent.” Mr. Knightley said nothing in response, but his quill scratched across the paper. Emma frowned, “You do not wish to confirm with my father?” 

Mr. Knightley looked up at her, confused. “Why would anyone know better than you?” 

Emma flushed with gratitude. She knew, indeed, that she was correct, but she found it was an even greater pleasure to be trusted than to be right. 

However, Mr. Knightley could not assist in the most arduous duty that awaited her, writing to Harriet Smith. Emma had not seen, spoken, or written to Harriet since inviting her to, as John called it, “Mr. Knightley’s debut” in London. She could only hope that Harriet attributed her silence to Emma’s preoccupation with her family. Though such an assumption would not be incorrect, it was of course due in equal part to the discomfiture between them. 

Emma knew their present quandary was all her own doing. She had raised Harriet up into their society, and she had placed Harriet—her beauty, her youth, her sweetness—before Mr. Knightley. When she believed Frank Churchill to be Harriet’s object, Emma had taken pains to explain away the distance between their positions as if it were nothing. 

And as for Mr. Knightley, Emma could not claim any heroism of sentiment that might prompt her to encourage any renewed attachment to Harriet Smith—who remained the infinitely more worthy recipient of the gentleman’s affection. It was still her ardent wish that Harriet would be disappointed, but Harriet herself had done nothing to forfeit the regard which had been so voluntarily formed. She knew she would not rest easy until Mr. Knightley and Harriet had been given the option, at least, to begin again. Without her machinations, Emma knew they would have little natural opportunity to socialize. Emma would provide a venue. They must do the rest on their own. It was all the service she could bear to render her friends. 

It was the evening of the fourth day since her return that she finally wrote to Harriet and invited her to Hartfield. She arranged that her friend would arrive for tea—shortly before Mr. Knightley was due to join them as he usually did, customarily early for supper.

Isabella and the young Knightley children were present when Harriet arrived as the limits of Emma’s generosity would not stretch to accommodate a lengthy tete-a-tete with her friend. The hour struck three and Harriet appeared promptly. After a stilted, but gracious welcome, Harriet affectionately embraced all the little Knightleys and warmly greeted Isabella. Emma marveled that all the nervousness Harriet had exhibited during the Knighleys’ last visit had melted away. The summer weather too was kind to Harriet’s person, adding color where it was wanting. She looked more lovely and genteel than ever, Emma thought, with a grim reminder to herself that Mr. Knightley would be arriving in short order.

The children remained in the parlor for the better part of an hour until Henry and John’s play grew too vigorous, and it was determined a sojourn in the garden would be to the benefit of all. The children were swept outdoors by their mother, leaving Harriet and Emma alone. The air was thick with the silence between them until Emma could bear it no longer. 

“Harriet, I should never have asked that you cease your visits to Hartfield. You spoke to me in confidence and I—”

“Miss Woodhouse,” Harriet interrupted, clearly in anguish, “You have been quite right not to see me. Our conversation just two weeks ago, I know, caused you some distress, and I have spent many hours since reflecting on my own foolishness. I raised my thoughts above my station without real cause, and—” she hesitated, meeting Emma’s eyes— “Thought only of my own wishes and not the feelings of others.” 

“Harriet, please,” Emma cried, grasping for her friend’s hand, “I assure you I did not mean to discourage you or dampen your hopes. I regret if I caused you heartache. You are all goodness and humility. I know Mr. Knightley’s current situation is unusual, but you must not think it is insurmountable—” She no longer knew if she was giving Harriet counsel or herself. “If his heart is yours, he will feel for you still.”

Harriet shook her head, her look downcast, and her eyes bright with tears. “I thank you Miss Woodhouse, but I feel sure that I was wrong about Mr. Knightley. He is an excellent man, and I do admire him, but I believe I mistook his good will and my own for more than it is.” She lightly squeezed Emma’s fingers. “His heart never belonged to  _ me _ . And my heart will always—” 

There was no opportunity for Harriet to continue as the door was opened and the subject in question entered the room. Though it was just as Emma had planned, she could not help but wish his gait was not quite so long nor his steps so swift. The ladies were able to compose themselves rapidly, as ladies are wont to do, and Mr. Knightley, as a gentleman, did not indicate any notice of their previous state. 

Harriet stood and picked up her reticule. “I see you have other visitors, Miss Woodhouse, and I believe I have stayed far too long. I am sure Mrs. Goddard is wondering where I could be. Though she knows I love to play with your charming nephews and nieces. And little Bella is so much grown, practically a lady. I hope you won’t mind if I call again later in the week. Goodbye, Miss Woodhouse.” Harriet hurried by Mr. Knightley, hardly looking at him. She curtsied briefly—”Ah, good day, Mr. Knightley. Best wishes for your health. I am glad to hear Mr. Perry visited you!”— and was near gone. 

Emma found herself murmuring, “Goodbye, Harriet,” to the hem of Harriet’s skirt as it disappeared through the door. 

Mr. Knightley, with a puzzled frown, watched the young woman depart. Emma noted his interest. “So that is Harriet Smith?” he asked, “I wish she had stayed. I should like to know more of her.” 

Emma felt the color drain from her face. “Why?” 

Mr. Knightley relaxed into his chair. “I hear of noone else from Robert Martin. He was reluctant to speak to me at first, but once I broached the subject, I awakened a surprising confidence. He speaks quite highly of her beauty and her gentle nature. No man could be considered less of a poet than Robert, but when he speaks of Miss Smith, I feel I should refer him to Mr. John Murray.” 

Emma sucked in her cheeks and raised her brows, trying to appear politely disinterested. “I see. And what is your impression of her? Does she meet Mr. Martin’s description?” 

Mr. Knightley looked incredulously at Emma, “In the mere half a minute in which she was in my presence, I suppose I observed that she is pretty enough and very ladylike. I appreciated her good wishes for my health. Does that satisfy you?” 

Emma nodded and picked up a neglected needlepoint as if it were no matter. She did not expect him to continue, and was surprised when he did, “I am sure she and Robert will be very happy together.” 

“Together?” Emma could not keep the surprise out of her voice. 

“Yes, Robert tells me he plans to renew his suit shortly, and he is quite certain this time he will be accepted. And of course,” he said, leaning forward conspiratorially, “You might know why she did not accept him in the first place. I cannot imagine it! I admit, it makes me question her character. If she favors him, why would she reject an offer from such a well-situated young man?” 

Emma’s breath caught for a moment, her needle poised above the embroidery—how to explain Harriet’s rejection while obscuring her own snobbery, her grave error in the matter of Harriet’s heart?—until she realized she did not need to answer his query afterall. 

“Mr. Knightley, you are not to ask questions you should already know the answer to. You must try to remember.” 

Mr. Knightley scoffed, sitting back in his chair, and Emma was content to let the subject drop. They were silent for some moments until he shifted and pulled a small book out of his breast pocket. She looked at him curiously and, to her surprise, the color in his cheeks rose a little. 

“I did some exploring in Donwell’s library yesterday, and I found a collection of poems I did not remember, but perhaps you might. It’s a volume of sonnets by a variety of authors—some of them are romantic; all of them are succinct.” 

He gave her a sheepish smile, and Emma blushed as she remembered her opening salvo at the party at Harper House. 

“You brought it for me to read?” She reached out to take the book from him, but he stood. 

“I thought we might read it together,” he said, sitting close to her on the settee. The book fell open in his palm, and she could see some of the pages were folded over. 

Emma tried to hide the shiver of pleasure his nearness provoked in the only way she knew how—with a teasing remark. “Ah, you will have marked the most boring ones.” 

Mr. Knightley pretended to be affronted. “I am sure you mean that I will have marked those that exhibit the most craft!” Emma smiled at his jest, and he demurred, “Indeed Emma, I cannot take credit for the folded corners at all. I believe, based on the marginalia, this book belonged to my mother.” 

He gently fingered the pages with a wistful tilt to his mouth. Summoning her courage, Emma lightly touched the back of his hand to pause his movement and, using her own fingertips, deftly flipped to the first of the folded pages. “Then we shall begin here,” she said. 

“Would you read it?” He held the book over her lap. 

“Yes, but you must read the one after.” 

When Isabella returned to the parlor an hour later, she found Emma in stitches as Mr. Knightley stood in front of the fire concluding an Alexander Montgomery poem in an extremely bad Scottish lilt, his hand raised and twisted as if in agony. 

“ _ What furious fiend inflamed thee so to flyte? Thee—nowise now to numbered be with men! Whatever thou be, thou art a knave, I ken—” _

Emma, struggling to breath between giggles, interrupted, “You must stop. It is too awful.”

Mr. Knightley shrugged helplessly. “I cannot. This is a Spenserian sonnet, and it is the only way it will properly rhyme.”

She sat up from where she had collapsed against the arm of the sofa and pointed at him accusingly. “You are a horrible man!”

He smiled wickedly and opened his mouth to resume his performance when Isabella interrupted, “I see Mr. Knightley is singing for his supper, so to speak?” 

Emma shook her head, “For such a recitation he should be denied any supper at all, but I’m afraid Papa would not allow such retribution.” 

Mr. Knightley’s face fell as he was reminded of his duty to his host. “Your father _ — _ I have taken advantage of his hospitality without greeting him this afternoon. I will go see him now?”

“Yes, of course,” Emma said as she stood, “And I will speak to cook about the menu.” 

They departed the parlor from opposite ends, Emma avoiding her sister’s arch look as she passed. 

It wasn’t until she prepared for bed that she reflected on her brief conversation with Harriet. How could she be so willing to forfeit the affections of such a man in favor of Robert Martin? The contrast in the countenance and air of Mr. Knightley and Mr. Martin was so strong to Emma’s feelings, as was her recollection of Harriet’s declaration of preference for the former, Emma could not believe it. So fresh was the sound of Harriet’s words, spoken with such emphasis,  _ No I hope I know better than to think of Robert Martin _ .

And yet Harriet herself seemed determined to think no more of Mr. Knightley _ — _ though Emma had some personal doubt that this could be achieved. Could it be that Harriet, in her youth and humility, simply despaired of Mr. Knightley’s love and was intent that a lesser marriage would be the best path forward? Or had Harriet truly, as Robert Martin believed, had a change of heart? As Emma blew out candles in her chamber, she pondered the most worrying question of all: the degree of Mr. Knightley’s heartbreak when his memory returned if Harriet were lost to him forever.

Her slumber that evening was fitful and fleeting. Her dreams suggested scenes from a gothic novel. She saw Mr. Knightley and Harriet reach for one another in a misty meadow, his eyes lighting up with recognition and ardour, a perfect blush forming on Harriet’s cheeks, and Mr. Knightley’s memory flooding back at the mere sight of her. Emma awoke before dawn with a huff, resolving to expunge every book authored by Miss Radcliffe from the Hartfield library. 


	12. Chapter XII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hooray! It's 2021. We made it! Thank you for the comments on the last chapter. It's always really exciting to see which parts you enjoyed. My heart leaps every time I get an alert there's a new comment.
> 
> Since, in my last author's note, I recommended that everyone should read the novel to see the breadth and wonder of John Knightley's curmudgeonly sass, I wanted to let you all know that Audible recently released an audio version of Emma with Emma Thompson narrating and a full cast of voiced parts. It is adapted/abridged from the original, but it features nearly all of my favorite passages. 
> 
> Anyway, back to our idiots in love! Let's see how they get in their own way in this chapter. :)

Two days later, it was the talk of the town _—_ sweet Miss Smith and the kind young farmer, Robert Martin, had finally found their way to one another. The couple were said to be so in love, so anxious to be wed that the first of the banns would be read that very Sunday. Their wedding was planned for the first Wednesday in September _._

“I do not wish to wait a moment longer,” Harriet Smith was heard telling Miss Elizabeth Martin while frittering over ribbons at Ford’s. “I am ready now to be Robert’s wife.” 

The first reading of marriage banns was always an exciting event in a village such as Highbury, and the general good will toward the couple only served to increase the fervor surrounding the service that Sunday. The Knightleys were caught up in the crush of parishioners as they made their way into the church. 

John pointed to an empty pew near the back. “I will sit here with the children, Isabella, if you and George wish to take your usual places near the front.” 

Isabella furrowed her brow. “You must ensure the children pay attention, John. No playing and no napping,” she pointed her finger at each of the Knightley children and, most emphatically, at her husband, “Any of you!”

George lent Isabella his arm as they wove their way up the center aisle, stopping as they went for several tips of the hat and “how d’ye do”s, until they reached the third row on the right. George released Isabella and turned to maneuver into the pew, but found it occupied. 

“Ah, Cole, Mrs. Cole!” he said, with a friendly smile, “Good morning. With the crowds in church, you seem to have been forced into what I consider to be my usual spot. Where do you usually sit? Perhaps we could trade places today _—”_

Mrs. Cole cocked her head and frowned. “You sit across the aisle from us, Mr. Knightley _—_ on the left, that is. I dare say we’ve sat here for years.” 

Isabella confirmed, “Yes, Mr. Knightley, I believe you’ve migrated across the aisle. Come, I will sit with my father, and you will sit as you are used to.” She gestured to an empty seat behind Mr. Woodhouse and next to the Hugheses.

Bewildered, but with a polite nod to the Coles, George sat where Isabella had indicated. Henry Woodhouse was not a small man, and, given the potential draftiness of the old church, he rarely removed his hat and layers even in summer. George found himself shifting this way and that in an effort to see the pulpit, an impossible task given Mr. Woodhouse’s attire and height. George did not know why he had given up his old place which had a nice enough view of the choir and was next to Mrs. Bates, a lady who could be counted on to say very little and allow him a swift exit. He could already sense Mrs. Hughes to his left, sizing him up for small talk. 

But the organ groaned and the crowd settled, and George found he no longer had to wonder why he’d claimed this seat as his favorite. When looking toward, but not _at_ the pulpit _—_ whereby the vicar he now knew to be _Elton_ stood _—_ he was afforded an ideal view _._ Not of Mr. Woodhouse and his scarves, but of his daughter. Emma’s elegant neck and lovely profile were framed by the stained glass window at the back of the church. Her fair curls peeked out from beneath her bonnet, so close he very nearly brushed them as the congregation stood and he reached down for his hymnal. 

Best of all, he was perfectly placed to receive the saucy looks she threw over her shoulder during the vicar’s theatrical gospel reading. 

She nodded toward the vicar. “Perhaps he should give your Scottish sonnet a try next,” she whispered, her lips pursed in that particular way he found so maddening. 

“I’m sure he could not do it justice,” he returned quietly, “It requires truly exceptional elocution.” 

Emma rolled her eyes at him, but bit her lip to stop a laugh. With a final, delightful little smirk, she turned to face forward again. 

As Elton’s sermon droned on, George wondered at his past self _—_ the person who had chosen this seat. How long had he known of his love for Emma? The revelation could have been a surprise, a bolt of lightning, or it could have arrived as gradually as a rising tide. He could not imagine he was truly content with these brief, fleeting moments of genial intimacy, and yet he knew already he could not do without them. Perhaps they could go on on as they were _—_ bachelor uncle and maiden aunt _—_ but for the potential for something more wonderful that he could sense in their rare moments alone. 

After the sermon, the final hymn was sung, and Mr. Elton stood before the altar to deliver parish announcements. He reminded his flock to give as they could in anticipation of the harvest festivities “around which my dear Mrs. Elton is leading several charitable efforts on behalf of the poor in our community. And what else?—Ah, yes of course—a most important and holy duty as your spiritual leader—the banns. I hereby publish the banns of marriage between Miss Harriet Smith of this parish and Mr. Robert Martin of Donwell Parish. As Donwell has no church seat of its own, the banns will be read here alone. This is the first time of asking. If any of you know any reason in law why they may not marry each other you are asked to declare it. Now.” 

The vicar waited three or four beats too long, in George’s opinion, for any response. George glanced about the room as the congregation shifted in the uncomfortable silence. When his gaze returned to the front, he found Emma watching him with interest over her shoulder. Perplexed, he gave her a curious smile just as Mr. Elton closed, “Well then, we pray for this couple as they prepare for their wedding. Very good.” He cleared his throat and raised his arms half-heartedly. “Go in peace to love and serve the Lord.” 

Immediately after the benediction, there was a crush of well-wishers making their way to the front where the Martin family and Harriet Smith were seated. With his generous spirit triumphing momentarily over his distaste for change, Mr. Woodhouse signaled he wished to congratulate little Miss Smith, of whom he was so fond, and Emma leapt up to accompany him. George took the opportunity to slip out as quickly as he could. There would be ample time to felicitate Robert and his bride in the future.

In his rush to extricate himself from the congratulatory throngs, he nearly collided with a young woman standing just beyond the church doors. In her surprise, she lost her balance, and George reached for her shoulder to steady her.

“Miss Fairfax!” he stepped back, recognizing the victim of his reckless exit, “My apologies. I should be more careful. Are you well?” 

She flushed prettily. “Oh, yes, Mr. Knightley. No need to apologize. I should not have been standing so close to the doors on such a crowded morning. I was waiting for my aunt and grandmother, and here they are now—” 

“Mr. Knightley!” Miss Bates waved enthusiastically to him with the hand that was not supporting the weight of her frail mother. “We are so glad you have returned to Highbury—and safely! I cannot tell you the distress we felt when we heard of your accident. You know my father took a tumble once from his horse, and his right leg was never quite the same after, but here you are, looking very well—though I hear your memory is not as it used to be? Have you spoken to Mr. Perry about it? You will remember us of course.”

Mr. Knightley bowed. “Miss Bates, Mrs. Bates, it is wonderful to see you both. You are correct, my memory was impacted by my fall. But I am happy to say it is improving, and of course, I could not forget my oldest friends.” 

Miss Bates smiled, gratified. She and her mother looked all of ten years older, if not more. It seemed that fortune had not been kind to the Bateses, and George was sorry for it. He had known that upon the death of Reverend Bates—just over twenty years now—their situation would be much changed, and even ten years ago their circumstances were significantly reduced. Despite her incessant conversation, Miss Bates was a good and kind woman, and he had always hoped that a local widower might find sufficient joy in her company. However, it was not to be. She appeared to be wearing the same frock he last remembered her in. 

“I would like to stay and hear how you are, but I am afraid I cannot keep mother out long in this heat,” Miss Bates explained as she slowly led Mrs. Bates down the path toward town. George walked politely beside them. “Upon my honor, we have been so very spoiled, Mr. Knightley, keeping Mr. Woodhouse company while Miss Woodhouse was in London assisting with your care and the children’s—”

 _His_ care? George set aside that particular insight for further examination. There was no time to ponder its full meaning as Miss Bates continued—

“Mr. Woodhouse would not hear of us walking anywhere at all. And his cook prepared a very fine, very healthful meal each evening with Mother in mind. When we returned home last week, he sent us back with fresh eggs, a hindquarter of pork, and beautiful breads and jams from the Hartfield kitchen. It was lucky too since we have the honor of Jane’s visit before she returns to London—where of course she will stay with the Campbells as is right and proper. They have been so kind to our Jane, Mr. Knightley—which of course is no surprise at all, and I should not even mention it—ensuring Jane has a proper trousseau—” 

George couldn’t help but start at these last words, his attention snapping back toward Miss Fairfax. The lady colored deeply and bowed her head. “Aunt,” she gently interrupted, “Mr. Knightley is not aware of my engagement. We should say no more. Remember, Mr. John Knightley asked that we allow Mr. Knightley to recall these recent years without our assistance.” 

“Oh dear,” Miss Bates clutched at her pelisse, “I am so sorry, Mr. Knightley. I am afraid as you strengthen your mind, it may be necessary to avoid my company. I am a talker, you know; I am rather a talker, and now and then I have let a thing escape me which I should not! I am not like Jane—I wish I were. I will answer for it. She never betrayed the least thing in the world.” She paused, and though she managed a wavering smile, her eyes were wide with uncertainty as she looked between George and her niece. 

“Not at all, Miss Bates. My brother is quite strict with me as brothers ought to be, but I do not mind,” George replied, hoping to comfort his friend—though there was no use in ignoring what he had heard for the sake of her feelings. To show there was no ill will, he bowed over Miss Fairfax’s hand. “My best wishes, Miss Fairfax. It is in fact _I_ who should apologize for being remiss in my congratulations. I am certain I would have found out in due time irrespective of our conversation today. Though I will not ask the identity of your groom-elect and risk my brother’s ire.”

Miss Fairfax bobbed in a polite curtsy as Miss Bates’s smile turned genuine again. “Oh, he is a very, very fine gentleman. So very civil and so very in love with our Jane. It was most romantic. He gifted Jane a pianoforte, you know—and imagine! The most beautiful instrument you’ve ever beheld in our little parlor, and all of us in complete ignorance of who had sent it—well, of course, Jane knew, but—” 

“ _Aunt_ ,” Miss Fairfax broke in again, less gently this time. “Mr. Knightley, we are very glad you are safely returned to Highbury. I must hurry my grandmother home. I believe we will see you at the Coles’ party on Tuesday?” 

George nodded and tipped his hat. “I very much look forward to it, Miss Fairfax.” 

For a few moments, he watched the three generations of Bates women continue down the path toward the center of town. It seemed as soon as one mystery resolved itself—that of the pianoforte—another emerged: the secrecy surrounding its delivery. 

But who could focus on such notions when Miss Bates’s discourse had invoked a far more enticing image. Emma had not merely come to London for the gathering at Harper House; she had arrived earlier to assist in his care. George had never considered himself a terribly romantic man, but suddenly his mind was awash with fanciful visions of Emma gently soothing him with a damp cloth, Emma helping him to small sips of water, Emma holding his hand as he slept. It certainly _could_ be interpreted as more than common friendliness on her part. Was it too much to hope that—

George turned back toward the church to find the subject of his musings standing before him, her hair practically glowing in the summer light, her cheeks pinked in the heat, and a deep frown of displeasure distorting her charming features.

—

Emma observed Mr. Knightley carefully as the banns were announced, and she could discern no difference in his countenance. Based on her dreams earlier in the week, she had half imagined he himself would stand in objection to the marriage, a sudden influx of memory and sentiment prompting his action. Thankfully, it was not to be, and Harriet seemed none the worse for it. She was all beams and blushes when Emma escorted her father to the Martins’ seat near the apex of the chapel. 

“My dear Miss Smith. I want to offer my sincerest congratulations though I hope you will not feel you must marry very soon. Such an event cannot take place too gradually for my taste. You must take care that the Martins’ house is not too cold or too warm for your health. Mr. Perry is a great advocate for a temperate home. Perhaps in a year or two, after sufficient alterations have been made for your comfort—” 

Harriet’s good cheer had begun to falter as she felt the full weight of the respected gentleman’s counsel, and Emma broke in to save her friend from any anxious consideration, “Papa, you know Miss Smith stayed with the Martins at Abbey Mill Farm last summer. She is already quite at ease in their home. And should she wish for warmer climes at any moment, your great fire at Hartfield will always be available to her, will it not?” Emma lovingly soothed her father, but threw Harriet a quick wink. “Besides, their marriage must take place within the next three months now that the banns are read. You would not have Harriet and Mr. Martin run afoul of the laws of our church?” 

Mr. Woodhouse did not seem quite certain that even God’s law stood above the recommendations of Mr. Perry, but as Harriet’s countenance had reverted to its previous blissful state, Emma was satisfied. 

Leaving her father with Isabella, Emma set out to gather together all the remaining Knightleys so that they might depart. She found little John and Bella beneath the altar. She roused her slumbering brother-in-law in the back pew and directed him to ready the children. Finally, she stepped into the sunlight to find Mr. Knightley who had slipped out quickly after the benediction. She spotted his upright figure a short ways down the path toward Highbury where he accompanied Mrs. and Miss Bates and Miss Fairfax in their slow progress. 

Emma observed, both with approval and with envy, as Mr. Knightley paid the ladies kind attention. Must he be so feeling, so truly considerate for everyone? She couldn’t help the knot that formed stomach as his lips quirked up in a smile and the corners of his eyes crinkled, signalling he was most delighted. And she very nearly gasped when he took Jane Fairfax’s hand and gallantly bowed. This would not do. She swiftly moved to catch up with the party, reaching them just as the ladies departed and Mr. Knightley turned back toward the church.

“Are you not joining us for luncheon?” Emma asked him impatiently, “We are all ready to depart. You know my father grows anxious when waiting.” 

Without waiting for him to respond—she may have heard, “Of course, Emma,” said to the back of her bonnet—she went to join the John Knightleys and her father with Mr. Knightley trailing behind. 

On the path back to Hartfield, she could intermittently sense his gaze. He seemed interested, perhaps, in conversing, but, to Emma’s mind, if he had wished for a chat, he should have accompanied Jane Fairfax and her relations back to Highbury. 

Finally, as they neared the house, he came out with it, “I just learned Jane Fairfax is engaged to be married.” 

“Oh? And does this surprise you?” She couldn’t help but look at him sidelong to take in his expression as he answered. 

His brows knitted together. “I suppose I am only surprised it has not been mentioned before.” 

Emma, determined to appear completely dispassionate, attempted to return her focus exclusively to the path ahead. “And why would it? Miss Fairfax is not often here in Highbury. Her wedding will not be held here. It is of very little consequence to our regular lives.” 

He was silent for a few moments, and when he spoke, his voice was grave, “And I suppose you never did befriend Miss Fairfax during her visits, as I hoped you would.” 

It was just like Mr. Knightley to cut Emma to the quick without even knowing the whole of her history. Even in moments such as these—when he ought to be more muddled than anyone—he seemed able to achieve a unique clarity. 

“You are correct that I have not always done right by Miss Fairfax,” Emma relented, “I fear that I have sometimes allowed my own jealousy and vanity to prevent a more amicable alliance between us. Though we are to lose her shortly, as you’ve discovered, I have tried recently to be a more worthy friend to her.”

And now Emma found herself the recipient of Mr. Knightley’s tender smile. “She is very lucky to have your friendship, Emma. No matter how lately it was offered.” 

He drew her arm within his, and Emma flushed. Though she was delighted by his actions, his great pleasure in her consideration of Jane Fairfax left her disquieted.


	13. Chapter XIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone is hanging-in there this week. I was going to split this chapter into two, but given the state of the world, I couldn't do that to you guys. :) My very best to anyone reading, and I'm exceptionally excited to hear your thoughts.

George Knightley was not often an advocate for parties. To be sure, he enjoyed conversing with his friends and a fine meal. However, as soon as such a gathering was deemed a “party,” it became necessary to invite those beyond one’s intimate circle and arrange the evening with such exacting detail that true refreshment and relaxation would prove impossible. Though in the case of the party at the Coles’, George found he was looking forward to the evening. There would be several in attendance—including the Coles themselves—with whom he had not had the opportunity to speak since London, and whether due to deduction, discovery, or improvement in his memory, he expected their conversation would be much more comfortable and fruitful. 

Additionally, he found he was quite intrigued to learn more about Miss Fairfax’s impending nuptials. From the idle chatter among their acquaintances, he learned that the party was intended to be a celebration in honor of Miss Fairfax and her betrothed. Emma, uncharacteristically, refused to show any interest in the matter, and John, of course, was of no use. George had no idea to whom Miss Fairfax might have become engaged—likely some acquaintance of the Campbells. He was very happy that Jane, having no fortune of her own, had escaped the fate of her aunt and even the prolonged path of Mrs. Weston. And surely the gentleman would be a sensible, grounded man—not unlike himself. George looked forward to meeting him. 

Of course, the final—and first and primary, really—aspect of the party to look forward to was Emma herself. She seemed somewhat subdued as of late, but a woman as lively as she could not help but make merry at a soirée. He remembered the Coles often had music, and he would relish the opportunity to hear Emma play. And if someone were to play a reel, perhaps he might make an exception to his rule of not dancing. 

John and Isabella had sent their regrets to the Coles as they planned to return to London by the end of the week and elected to spend the evening with Mr. Woodhouse. As such, George arrived at the Coles’ alone and on foot. It was a beautiful evening, mild and cloudless. He anticipated an equally untroubled walk home after a cheerful visit. As he approached the house, the Woodhouse’s carriage thundered down the drive, and Mr. Knightley had the pleasure of handing out Miss Bates, Miss Fairfax, and lastly, Emma. 

He did not let go of her gloved hand immediately, and his thumb swept across her knuckles. “It was most kind of you to offer your carriage to Miss Fairfax and Miss Bates.” 

For half a second, she looked almost demure, even shy, until her gaze shifted past him. Her eyes widened in dismay. “Worse and worse!” 

He looked behind him to see what was the matter and saw nothing remarkable. “What?” 

She pursed her lips and raised her eyebrows. “Usually I scold you for arriving at social events on horseback, and today you are completely without horses at all! Did you arrive on foot?” 

He chuckled. “According to your report of the last few years, I thought I was the one who did all the scolding.”

She narrowed her eyes, but smiled and allowed him to escort her inside. 

However, once among others, George found he and Emma gravitated toward different sides of the room. He pleasantly discussed the season’s successful harvest with Mr. Cox, a local shipping merchant, while Emma chatted gaily with Mrs. Weston and the simpering young man he’d briefly met and seen her dancing with in London. Who could he be, and what brought him to Highbury? He did not like Emma’s manner in his presence. She was all playful smirks and arch looks though he could not claim there was anything inappropriate in their interactions. And as for the gentleman, he seemed to be frequently observing Miss Fairfax, perhaps casting aspersions on her appearance or status as a bride. 

George circulated to different groups of party-goers, hoping to meet Miss Fairfax’s fiance among those new to him. He spoke briefly with Mr. Elton, truly exceptionally vacant for a vicar, and Mr. and Mrs. Hughes. Eventually and as expected, those with musical ability were called upon to perform. 

“I do hope, Miss Fairfax, you will do us the honor of the first performance,” Mr. Cole requested, “And perhaps it is not too much to hope that your groom-elect will join you?” 

George could not have been more surprised when Emma’s friend, the artful young man, stepped forward. “I am afraid I should be trusted with little other than turning the pages, Mr. Cole, but perhaps Miss Fairfax will humor me?” 

With a brilliant smile, Jane acquiesced, and the pair embarked on a duet in German while Miss Fairfax played. George had to confess they made a lovely pair. His humor brought out a light within Jane while her tranquility was a steadying force for them both. They sang together marvelously, not missing a note, as Jane’s able hands flew over the keys of the instrument. As they performed, Mr. Knightley glanced over at Emma, politely listening and seated near the front. Though her expression was placid, he noted something wistful in her gaze, an emotion he was quite familiar with—longing—but for what, he could not know. 

Emma’s talent was requested next. George couldn’t help but marvel at her. How genteel she was! She humbly protested for exactly the correct amount of time—”Oh, surely, I could never. I have nothing prepared!”—before kindly suggesting that more competent musicians perform instead—”Perhaps Miss Fairfax should sing another. Or Mrs. Elton?”—until finally, reluctantly agreeing—”If I really must, Mr. Cole.”—before being escorted to the piano where her sheet music was already awaiting her. 

While there was much to be admired in Jane Fairfax’s accomplished playing, George found he enjoyed Emma’s performance even more—as he knew he would. Where Miss Fairfax was effortless and almost _too_ perfect, Emma was anything but. She had picked a song firmly in a range that would do justice to her abilities, and she played quite prettily and with energy. He relished her performance all the more for the little unconscious signals of concentration and stress she exhibited. Her brow lowered as she worked through a difficult fingering. She bit her lip as she approached a key change. Far from Jane’s serene countenance, it was clear that for Emma, this was an undertaking. When Miss Fairfax performed, there was pleasure; when Emma played, there was pride. He applauded most sincerely when she was done and was pleased to receive a grateful smile as she took her seat.

A few others performed; the distinctive Mrs. Elton shrieked through an Italian aria and young William Cox assisted Miss Hughes in an Irish ballad. When Mrs. Weston was asked to exhibit, she demurred, “In my condition, I think not, Mr. Cole, but I might be equal to playing a country dance or two which requires more enthusiasm than skill—if there is interest!” 

There was, of course, interest as there was little opportunity to dance in Highbury. Miss Fairfax and her young man led the way. George looked across the room for Emma, but she was already engaged by Weston which was well enough. He settled into his place at the edge of the floor to observe and to enjoy Emma’s high spirits as she danced, but his vigil was not to be as solitary as he wished. Mrs. Elton sought him out, perhaps angling to be asked herself. 

She flicked open her fan in what he suspected she considered a becoming way. “You do not often dance, do you, Knightley?”

He considered tolerating her company for one set so that he might ask Emma for the next. It would not do to ask one lady to dance after ignoring the wishes of another. But the intimate use of his last name decided him against it. He would simply have to enjoy Emma’s lively dancing from a distance. 

“I’m afraid I take little enjoyment in it, Mrs. Elton.” 

She changed tact, standing a little taller, invoking a haughty expression that was surely meant to impress. “Yes, indeed. It is a rather vulgar pastime isn’t it? I did take pleasure in a dance before I was married—and I daresay I was a sought after partner—but I am happy that as a married woman I may pick and choose when to take the floor. Of course those who do not dance must watch and pretend to enjoy.” 

He could not help but agree with the last sentiment. “Fine dancing, I believe, must be its own reward.”

Mrs. Elton looked well satisfied by his statement and took it as encouragement to continue, “I will say, Knightley, that I very much enjoy watching Miss Fairfax dance—how elegant she is. And so perfectly paired with her Mr. Churchill.” 

The gentleman’s surname name was new to his ear, but he would not reveal his surprise to Mrs. Elton. Though he had heard the name “Churchill” before. He sifted through the ledgers of his mind. Was it not the family name of Mr. Weston’s late wife? They were the relations who were raising Weston’s son, young Frank. Weston spoke of them rarely, and when he did, his bitterness was barely disguised. 

“Their finding each other as they did—two children of Surrey meeting among strangers—so charming, is it not?” Mrs. Elton turned toward George to solicit his agreement, and as she did, she guessed his motivation for remaining silent. “Ah, but you must not remember all the particulars! And indeed, such romantic frippery is quite beneath your notice. Suffice to say, when Mr. Churchill arrived this spring to visit his father and new mother, nearly everyone intended him for another,” she said with a meaningful nod toward the top of the set where Emma stood, “But he was already engaged to Miss Fairfax.”

Every honorable instinct George possessed commanded him to quietly cut down Mrs. Elton for her gossip, but he found himself unable. His throat tightened at the thought that Emma had been implicated in this scheme. Disgusted with the insecurity which prompted the question, he could not help but inquire, “And their arrangement was a great secret? How did it come to be known?” 

Mrs. Elton's eyes brightened. “Oh yes, a _great_ secret. I always suspected, of course. What gentleman could fail to be interested in such a superior creature as Jane Fairfax? But Mr. Churchill made a different lady his ostensible object, one who showed marked preference for his attentions. Though I would not accuse Frank Churchill of anything untoward, the flirtation between them was undeniable and encouraged by so many. But it was all a ruse! He knew his aunt and guardian, Mrs. Churchill, would disapprove of the match with Jane. After all, though she is so accomplished, she is penniless. So it was all very hush-hush until just a few weeks ago when the great lady passed. We were all overjoyed, of course, at Jane’s good fortune. I had found a rather excellent placement for her as a governess, but no matter! There were congratulations from all quarters! Except, perhaps, one.” 

Looking out at the dancers, Mrs. Elton frowned in sympathy, but her eyes remained gleeful. Mr. Knightley followed the direction of her line of sight and found Emma, with her beautiful smile and eager posture, waiting to take a turn. 

“So good of Weston to dance with her,” Mrs. Elton said with finality, “It must be quite difficult for her to see Mr. Churchill and Jane so happy.” 

The room and the set became a blur to George as he connected and resolved all of the mysteries pondered since his fateful awakening in Brunswick Square. John would chide him for relying on information garnered rather than remembered, but it was too late. The puzzle was assembled, and the completed picture was not at all as he’d wished.

Emma’s stay in London had not been solely to George’s benefit, but had been an opportunity to flee from her disappointed hopes. That abominable scoundrel! To have toyed with Emma— _his_ dearest Emma—only to further his own selfish ends—And Jane as well, who was made to look on as he paid attentions to another woman while disguising his affections for her. He was a disgrace.

But George’s harshest thoughts must be only for himself. How selfish he had been! His slow pursuit of Emma had blinded him to her heartbreak. Mrs. Elton’s speech had explained it all—Emma’s occasional low moods and fractured confidence, her strange indifference to Jane Fairfax’s engagement. Emma had looked to him for friendship, and he had been thinking only of his own desires. 

He remembered that brief, ephemeral moment with Emma in the hedge garden. He would never accuse her of trifling with him in any respect, but could that not have been a mere excess of sentiment on her side? Or—worse still—could he have completely misinterpreted the care and kindness she displayed toward him as an old friend? 

The dance ended, and the applause broke his reverie. He couldn’t help but look for Emma, still amidst the other dancers. She must have sensed his gaze for she turned toward him, her countenance breaking into a broad grin. In his wretchedness, he could not stand to meet her eyes. With a short nod to Mrs. Elton—already chatting blithely to Mrs. Cole—George left the room with as much calm as he could manage, stalked through the Coles’ sitting room, and wrenched open the glass doors to the garden where he could breath in the night air and languish in his own misery. 

—

Emma’s eyes followed Mr. Knightley as he wove through the crowd and exited the room. What could have affected him so? All evening, since he’d held her hand at the carriage door, she had hoped he might ask her to dance. His generous appreciation of her piano playing had delighted her, and she had had little opportunity to speak with him all evening. She knew dancing was not his usual custom, but perhaps she might suggest delicately—

Frank Churchill approached her, all grins and bows, to ask her for the next, but she shook her head. “I thank you for your gallantry, Mr. Churchill, but I am sure no one here will censure you for dancing another with your bride. Now go and claim her before William Cox gets his chance.” 

He winked. “Well, if you insist, Miss Woodhouse. Shall I send Mr. Cox your way?”

Emma laughed. “No, indeed. He is a nice young man, but in the past, his heel has found my slipper with great consistency. I will assist Mrs. Weston and turn her pages.” 

With a final bow, Frank was off and returned to his rightful partner. Emma drifted away from the set and toward Mrs. Weston when she spotted Mr. Knightley through the glass and just beyond the light from the parlor. Though he was cast in darkness, she could sense his unease. His head was low and his hands closed into fists. He turned to look up at the night sky, and she could just see the deep furrow of his brow and the thin line of his mouth. 

The next dance began and, with a quick glance about to confirm all were distracted, Emma darted into the parlor. She crossed the room, but she hesitated, her fingers hovering over the door handle. She would hate to invite his displeasure. But he looked so deep in anguish—more melancholy even than he’d been at Box Hill—she could not let him alone. He might wish to confide in her—perhaps to consult her. A troubling coincidence occurred to her, Mrs. Weston had just played the song that accompanied the dance he had shared with Harriet Smith. What feelings could have been brought forth? She braced herself. Cost her what it would, she would listen.

She stepped out of doors, and he whirled around to face her. “Emma! Forgive me. Cole’s drawing room was overly warm, and I felt I was in need of fresh air. I find I tire more quickly since my fall.”

“Come, Mr. Knightley,” she took an unsteady step toward him, “We are old friends. If you have any wish to speak openly to me or to ask my opinion of anything that you may have in contemplation, I will hear whatever you like.” 

He sighed deeply, clenching his fists again and scowling. “I have learned this evening that the young man I met briefly in London, the one I saw you dancing with you at Vauxhall, is Mr. Churchill, Mr. Weston’s son, and that he is betrothed to Jane Fairfax.” 

Were it not for his anguished expression, she might have laughed in relief. Even without his memories, Mr. Knightley was so dead-set against Frank Churchill. She wondered what in Frank’s manner could have offended him so quickly. He raised an eyebrow as he concluded, “And their attachment was concealed for months rather than risking his aunt’s disapproval?” 

Emma confirmed with a nod. Mrs. Elton had told him, surely. She had seen them talking together. She could not imagine what fancies that good lady’s perspective had indulged. 

He was too agitated to be well understood, “This Mr. Churchill! Frank, indeed—He meets with a young woman, gains her affection, cannot even weary her by negligent treatment. His aunt is in the way—his aunt dies. He has only to speak—and we must all be eager to promote his happiness? He has used every body ill and is he to be rewarded with that sweet young woman?—Jane, you will be a miserable creature.” 

Of course, Emma thought, his anxiety was all for wonderful Jane Fairfax. Emma had tried repeatedly to smother her envy toward Miss Fairfax. She acknowledged she had fallen far short in what was due to Jane. She bore no ill will toward Jane herself, but it was nonetheless taxing to be daily confronted with the kind of accomplished lady Emma often felt she had failed to become.

“Frank will endeavor to deserve her,” she assured Mr. Knightley, “She is just the sort of partner he needs; composed, elegant, and kind. Just the sort of woman any man would want for a wife. To be sure, the sort of woman you would—” 

“That I would—?” he stopped in earnestness to look the question, “Emma, are you so certain of what I would want?” 

She really could say nothing. He tore his gaze away from her and sighed deeply. 

“Please tell me plainly. Were you— are you in love with Mr. Churchill?” Mr. Knightley asked finally. Her mouth fell open as the true reason for his distress slowly became known to her. He took her silence as reluctance to answer. “I could never wish such a man happy, Emma, knowing he exploited your affections. And I am aware, as you say, I am not supposed to ask questions I should remember the answer to, but—” 

She reached out to gently touch his arm, halting his speech, “Mr. Knightley, I fear I never had the opportunity to clarify that particular point before your fall. Allow me to do so now. For a brief moment, I thought myself attached to Frank. After all, everyone seemed to believe I should be. He was well-looking and attentive and—”

“Your age,” Mr. Knightley added bitterly.

Emma nodded. “But I never really _loved_ him, and for some time—even before his engagement was revealed—I felt nothing but amity toward him.” 

He looked at her warily from beneath his brow, and she perceived that her truthfulness was in doubt. Frustration bubbled up within her and, before she could stop them, tears started to form at the corners of her eyes. 

“How could I be in love with him when I—” she choked back a sob, “When there has always been another man first in my regard? Someone who has been a constant example of what a man ought to be? Unfailingly considerate, wise, principled, forthright—” 

She could not have been more clear. Everything depended on his response.

“Emma, I must tell you—” he looked away, but she could see a small smile playing at his lips, “This man you describe, he sounds dreadfully dull.” 

She couldn’t help but laugh, wiping away a tear that threatened to fall. “He is not dull at all. Perhaps I should have added handsome and clever?” He met her eyes, and the strength of his gaze left her nearly breathless. “He is my dearest friend.”

With great caution, Mr. Knightley reached for her hand.

“Friend?” he asked, worry lines crossing his forehead.

“ _Dearest_ ,” she replied, looking down as their fingers intertwined.

With his other hand, he gently lifted her chin for a fuller view of her face. Emma Woodhouse was not accustomed to making herself vulnerable in the eyes of others, but there was no use in attempting to be coy now. She knew that every part of her expression—from her eyes to her smile to the blush on her cheeks—must make her love for him plain. 

With a shuddering breath, he touched his forehead to hers and leaned closer still until they were nose to nose. 

“Dearest,” he agreed just before he tilted his head and lowered his lips to hers.


	14. Chapter XIV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all of your kind comments and thoughts on the last chapter! I'd had that last section written for about six months while I flushed out the story in my head. However, we still have a few things left to resolve and at least a few chapters left to go (depending on how much I needlessly elaborate on the John Knightleys home life as I am wont to do). 
> 
> Looking forward to hearing your thoughts as always! Your comments always make my day/week/month/life. :)

When Emma awoke the early next morning, her mind and heart were immediately overtaken by such an influx of remembrance and emotion, she thought she might never arise from her bed. She knew to which thoughts she ought to give precedence. First, there was some concern regarding Mr. Knightley’s unconfirmed, dormant affection for Harriet Smith. And this was followed by a half-hearted rebuke that she had not done more to engender its continuance. There, in the far corners of her mind, also remained a vague worry for the future, for the resolution of Mr. Knightley’s memory loss, and for how they might arrange themselves to ensure the happiness of all.

However, these hazy feelings of injustice, guilt, and uncertainty could not begin to displace the memory that replayed persistently each time she closed her eyes, that felt imprinted in her very being: the recollection of their embrace in the Coles’ garden. The experience was, she reflected, rather like quarelling with Mr. Knightley albeit infinitely more pleasurable. He began as he always did, stating his argument in a straightforward manner. His hand cupped the line of her jaw as he pressed his lips intently to hers. For her part, she had countered with an audible sigh as she pulled him closer to which he had responded with further, passionate disputation. At times it had been playful—his mouth ghosting over hers, the barest scrape of his teeth—and in other moments, deadly serious—all strength and insistence with his fingers submerged in her hair. 

At first, Emma could do little other than cling to his lapels in an effort to stay upright, but she prided herself on being a quick learner and a worthy sparring partner. As his arm wrapped tightly around her waist to gather her closer, she grew more confident, exploring the planes of his chest under her hands and nipping softly at his lips. The heavy groan from deep within his throat was a sufficient reward for such attempts, particularly as it was accompanied by an enthusiastic redoubling of his previous efforts. 

They were eventually called back to reality—had it been seconds, minutes, or hours later? Time had seemed immaterial to Emma—by the applause that marked the end of the dance in the parlor. It had been difficult, but very necessary to quickly part from one another. 

“I will come to Hartfield for breakfast tomorrow,” he said as he deftly smoothed her coiffure. Emma might have resented him for being so calm and unaffected, but as they turned toward the light of the drawing room, she could see his eyes were blown wide and black with desire. His breathing was still a touch labored as he gestured toward the glass door. “You may go first. I will follow shortly.” 

Emma moved out of the darkness and into warm candlelight spilling out into the garden. “Mr. Knightley—” She looked back at him, unsure of what to say and yet unable to move. It seemed that as soon as she stepped across the threshold, the fragile romance of the evening would shatter and propel them both back into their rote patterns as if nothing extraordinary had occurred. She would not be able to bear it. 

And it seemed he could not either. In a single fluid motion, he stepped toward her, grabbed her chin, and kissed her soundly once more. When he drew back a few moments later, his look was filled with wonder, but the corners of his mouth leapt upward in mirth. She herself couldn’t help but laugh, stupefied by the sudden force of her feelings. 

Chatter and music filtered through the house. Soon their absence would be noticed if it had not been already. 

“Go, Emma,” Mr. Knightley nodded toward the din of the party, “Before I find myself unable to let you leave.” 

He had stayed apart from her for the remainder of the evening, offering her only a few slow, dazed smiles from across the room, and Emma could understand why. She felt dizzy and feverish, and she was sure if he came within a yard of her, she would burst into flames. Luckily, she had found herself next to Miss Bates for the rest of the evening and had therefore eliminated the need to perform rational conversation. 

These remembrances were banished as Emma’s maid entered the room to assist her. Emma chose a simple yellow frock to wear and forwent a chemisette. For her hair she requested a looser, more romantic style quite different from her usual practical and pinned updo. 

Her maid cautioned, “Miss, with the slightest bit of wind or wet, I’m certain the curls will fall. Are you sure you wouldn’t like it more neatly done?”

“No, this will do for today,” Emma replied with a saucy conscious smile. She was hopeful the curls _would_ fall before the morning was over and was pleased the wind would make an effective scapegoat. 

However, as her maid worked, an uneasiness began to eat away at Emma’s schemes of another garden tryst after breakfast. She had no doubt of Mr. Knightley’s affection for her, and she was glad—more than _glad,_ surely, positively blissful—that he found her—she searched for the correct word— _interesting,_ but she was also keenly aware he lacked a full account of the previous ten years. He had no memory of Box Hill, Harriet Smith, or the full litany of her nonsensical fancies over the years. Buoyed by a single success—for even in her lowest moments, Emma would take _some_ credit for the marriage between Miss Taylor and Mr. Weston—she had thought herself a great matchmaker. She had been convinced that the wishes of every person in Highbury were whatever she wished them to be. She could try to recount to him the truth of it, but she knew it was impossible to do real justice to her own senselessness. Accepting his advances was, in a way, a deception. 

Passing swiftly by the shrieks and shouts resounding out from the children’s quarters, she descended the stairs and entered the breakfast room, anxious for both Mr. Knightley’s feelings and his company, but Mr. Knightley was nowhere to be found. Her father sat at the opposite side of the circular table cutting his egg boiled “very soft” and with Isabella to his right. She sneaked a small spoonful of sugar into her tea while Mr. Woodhouse was distracted by Emma’s entrance. 

“My dear, you look quite pale!” Mr. Woodhouse gestured to one of the footmen. “Please ask Serle to prepare a very fine, very thin bowl of gruel.”

“No, father,” Emma said reassuringly, “I will take my usual toast and tea.” She looked past Isabella toward Hartfield’s drive, hoping to spot Mr. Knightley’s determined gait in the distance. 

“Are you well this morning, sister?” Isabella shared her father’s disposition to worry. Where one foresaw an ailment the other would follow. 

“Oh yes, I am in excellent health.” Emma did her best to smile as she took a seat across from Isabella where she would still have a clear view up the drive. “Perhaps I stayed too long at the Coles’ yesterday evening.” 

“Was the party agreeable, Emma?” Isabella asked eagerly, “Did Miss Fairfax and Mr. Churchill appear just as enamored with one another as they did in London?” 

“Oh yes,” Emma replied absently, “Very pleasant, and indeed, very much in love.” She focused on buttering her bread, sensing Isabella’s study. “Is Mr. John Knightley joining us for breakfast this morning?” 

“I don’t believe so, sister. He retired to Donwell yesterday evening as he and George plan to visit Abbey Mill Farm this morning. Did George say anything about their schedule last night? If you anticipate they’ll join us for lunch or supper, I should give Serle notice.” 

Emma took a long sip of tea and pondered how to answer. “Mr. Knightley and I had very little opportunity to speak yesterday evening. There was a great deal of music and dancing and so forth.” 

She had been certain that he would come for breakfast, possibly even earlier. That he had _not_ come threw the entirety of the previous evening into question. Indeed, she had not been untruthful to Isabella. There had been little opportunity to speak, and as such, there had been no direct declaration of love, no expression of intent. Emma lightly traced her lips in thought as if to assure herself he had indeed—

She heard the crunch of gravel under hooves, and it took all her willpower not to leap over the table to watch for his arrival from the window. However, as two white horses and a carriage came into view, she frowned with disappointment.

“Is that not Weston’s curricle?” her father asked. And it was indeed. But the carriage was mostly empty with only young Thomas, the coachman’s son, in the forward seat. He did not slow down as he neared the house and halted the horses abruptly just as he drew up to the front door. Isabella caught Emma’s eye, and they exchanged grave looks though nothing was said that might disturb Mr. Woodhouse. If an urgent message was being conveyed from Randalls, there could only be one cause. 

James entered the dining room. “Begging your pardon,” he began with an uneasy bow, “We have a message from Mrs. Weston for Miss Woodhouse and Mrs. Knightley.” 

—

Mr. Knightley opened his eyes only to find himself squinting into the sunlight streaming through his drapes. He had a blinding headache and a keen sense of _dejavu_. He half expected to have been transported back to Brunswick Square with a bandage about his head. Perhaps the last two weeks had been a dream? But no, he was there, in the master’s suite at Donwell Abbey with his paisley bedclothes and the familiar prospect of the grounds just outside. He sat up and ran a hand over his face. This was indeed reality—and thank goodness for it he thought, as the brilliant memory of the previous evening began to resurface. 

He remembered sensations more than sights. There had been a growing heat under his collar upon hearing Mrs. Elton’s gossip about Emma and Mr. Churchill. He had felt barely capable of breath until he slipped out into the temperate night. Then Emma had followed him, and his heart had leapt into his throat. 

Emma, sweetest and best of all creatures, faultless in spite of all her faults, had arrived in the garden with no other thought than to offer him comfort. She had found him agitated and low, filled with animosity toward this Frank Churchill. Then, he had heard her declare that she had never loved Churchill. She was, in fact, his own Emma. And when they returned to the Coles’ drawing room, if he could have thought of Frank Churchill, he might have deemed him a decent sort of fellow. 

Of course, George could not have spared a single moment of consideration for anyone else yesterday evening. He was utterly consumed by the lingering impression Emma had left. He absently pleated his sheets between his fingers as he recalled the silk of her dress beneath his hands and the heartrending softness of her mouth. His coat, thrown haphazardly on the chair beside him, still had faint creases from where she’d grasped his lapels, holding him close to her. 

It would, he thought, be a perfect morning, one that could only be filled with further joy and amazement, in spite of this unaccountable headache. 

He scrambled eagerly out of bed and rang for his valet. George lifted his coat from the day before—Rogers would chide him for its condition—and removed his pocket watch. It was then, in a glance, that he realized the dreadful lateness of the hour. In accordance with his recovery, his staff had been instructed to let him sleep until he awoke naturally, but George had been raised by the farmers’ almanac, and it had been at least a decade since he had awoken more than half an hour past sunrise. 

He had promised Emma he would be at Hartfield for breakfast which Mr. Woodhouse took promptly at half past eight. It would be impossible to arrive on time, but he might be able to make a late appearance at the meal. Woodhouse did dine exceptionally slowly. 

“Rogers!” His valet entered, “I need to dress with some haste. And could I trouble the kitchen for a glass of cold water?” 

“Yes, it is later than your usual morning, sir. Will your gray coat do? It is a very warm day.” 

George was struck by a sudden pang of nervousness regarding his appearance that he hadn’t experienced since his first season in London. “Perhaps the navy purchased last spring?” 

Minutes later, still straightening his cuffs and trying to ignore the pain at his temples, he dashed down the front stairs and into the foyer where John was waiting. 

“Ah, and here is my layabout brother! I think we know who to take to task for your lethargy. Was Cole’s party so very enjoyable? I’m sorry to have missed it.”

George looked past his brother and to the footman. “Could you see that Bessie is saddled immediately? And I will need my hat as well. Thank you.” 

John raised an eyebrow. “You wish to ride to Abbey Mill Farm? It’s not more than half a mile.”

“I’m not going to Abbey Mill. I’m going to Hartfield.” 

John’s mouth opened and closed, flabbergasted, but George had neither time nor inclination to answer his brother’s bewilderment. He stepped out to wait for his horse in the drive. John followed him. 

“Hartfield?” John shook his head. “Is this to do with your—”

George silenced his brother with a look. “This is no mere impulse. I have an appointment, and I am late.” 

Now both of John’s eyebrows were raised in surprise. “George, did you _speak_ to Emma last night?”

“Of course I spoke to her.” George shuffled in the gravel impatiently. “I speak to her all the time.” He pulled at his cravat. “It is so hot this morning, and I have a dreadful headache. I swear, we haven’t had a day this miserable in Highbury since that rotten trip to Box Hill.”

John blinked. “Box Hill?” 

George nodded, relieved to see Bessie being led from the stables. “I told you about it when I was in London. Terrible humidity. Everybody was in a fit of pique. What I didn’t tell you is that _I_ was torn between calling Churchill out for his treatment of Emma and pushing him off the hillside if the opportunity presented itself—”

“George.” John said simply, reaching out to grab his brother’s shoulder. 

George stopped and looked up at him. “What?” 

A smile crept up over John’s face. “You remember Box Hill.”

George was speechless as he was handed his hat and assisted onto his horse. John was right. He did remember Box Hill, he realized as he kicked Bessie into a canter. In fact, he remembered everything.


	15. Chapter XV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friends, I'm so sorry! Work and illness got in the way of writing, I'm afraid. (Just a cold-- but man, they do get the best of you, don't they?) Thank you all for the-- as always-- incredibly kind comments on the last chapter. I'm not sure I'll be able to keep up with the aggressive posting schedule I set for myself, but I will post again within a week. I think we have three chapters left after this one, but I always seem to write more than I expect! 
> 
> I realize the first part of this chapter is just my personal TED Talk on Mr. Knightley's love for Emma, but I hope you'll indulge me. :)

George gripped the reins of his horse as she leapt over a bit of fencing with no trouble at all. He knew the path he’d chosen to Hartfield was somewhat reckless given his recent fall, but Bessie seemed energized by the challenge. It was the first time he’d taken her out since London— that fateful day when she had reared up at a sudden obstacle in the road—a loose cart, he remembered now—and thrown him off, altering his life irrevocably. 

But not, blessedly, his mind. As he rode, he swiftly catalogued the memories newly returned: John and Isabella’s wedding, young Emma’s innumerable reading lists, his last full season in London seven years ago, Cal and Sarah’s courtship, the joyous births of his nieces and nephews, the tenants he had aided and befriended, ten Christmases at Hartfield, and ten harvests at Donwell. 

There were also more recent and somehow more exquisite recollections of Emma which shone all the brighter due to their angles and inconsistencies. He remembered the first dinner party she had formally hosted at Hartfield as its mistress nearly four years ago. How lovely she’d looked. It was the first time he’d wondered what it would be like to kiss her, a ponderance he’d quickly banished on his lonely walk home. Every so often, usually after they’d disagreed, something akin to desire for her would surface, but he would dismiss it as appreciation of her beauty and spirit. 

That willfully undefined regard had followed at his heels when he had visited John and Isabella last summer. Shortly after the Westons’ engagement, Emma had claimed emphatic credit for the marriage within his earshot, leading to the first of many arguments regarding her matchmaking. Safely away from her in London and under the influence of an evening’s brandy, the begrudging esteem for her that always lingered after their quarrels had spurred him to produce that mysterious half-finished portrait. In the morning, he recalled as he twisted Bessie’s reigns in frustration with his own thick-headedness, he had hidden the paper beneath a stack of old receipts and dismissed it as a meaningless scribble. 

Finally, the Greek chorus that had so long plagued him, of affection, longing, and admiration, arose in unison and with such strength after Mr. Churchill’s appearance, he could no longer deny his love for her. Indeed, those feelings had come to such a roaring crescendo on Box Hill, he had lashed out in disappointment, absconding to Brunswick Square to suffer in isolation. How anxious he had been to return to her! He believed could remember the pain of his fall now. Perhaps, operating on some ancient instinct, his mind had attempted to shield him from further agony by closing off the memories of what he had never had, but had nonetheless, somehow, lost. 

It was strange to reconcile this remembered man, the Mr. Knightley who had been rushing back to Highbury with no thought beyond providing reassurance to his dear Emma, with his actions and attitudes of the past few weeks. He had lived temporarily without the gravity imbued to him by a decade as the master of Donwell Abbey. He had not yet become so disenchanted with the _ton_ and so resigned regarding his own bachelorhood. In his own way, he had pursued Emma without a real understanding of the years that divided them—years marked by his condescension and lectures. Indeed, initially he had had no awareness even of who she was! He had known only that he was immediately captured in her thrall. 

And what would she think of him now? Arriving late, overly hot, and harried, once again instilled with the concern and seriousness proportional to his thirty-seven years. She had said last night that he had _always_ been first in her regard, had she not? The fact of her love for him had seemed easy to accept as he held her in the garden at twilight. In the clarity of day and with the context of his memories, he felt less certain. 

Suddenly cautious, he approached Hartfield at a trot and slowly disembarked from Bessie. He tossed the reins to a stable boy with a nod of thanks. Without waiting for James, he entered through the front door and made his way down the hall to the light-filled breakfast room. 

He spotted Isabella first, sitting at the circular dining table with her father and restless children. She passed the butter to Henry with one hand while swatting little George away from the jam jar with the other. Baby Bella slept peacefully in her lap through the clamor. 

“Mr. Knightley!” She spared him half a smile as he entered before turning back to give her son a stern look. “We did not expect you for breakfast. I thought you planned to see the Martins this morning. Is my husband with you?” 

George colored a little, realizing he had ridden off too speedily to be an effective brother’s keeper. “We’ll visit Robert later. I’m sure John will be along shortly—I just felt like a ride this morning.” 

Isabella was too distracted to process his completely deficient report. She merely nodded as she bounced Bella and helped Henry butter his toast. 

George greeted Mr. Woodhouse who invited him to sit and take tea. “You look quite agitated, Mr. Knightley. Are you sure you will not have a bit of gruel? You know Serle makes it very fine—”

“I thank you, sir, but I have already taken breakfast—” a lie— “And merely wanted to spend time with our family this morning—” a lie again. He begged silently for penance. “I apologize for interrupting your meal. Perhaps Emma can keep me company. Is she in the garden?” 

Mr. Woodhouse looked about as if surprised his daughter wasn’t in the room. “Yes, where did Emma run to, Isabella? She went to find something for Mrs. Weston you said?” 

“An herb, Father,” Isabella said smoothly, “To help calm her during confinement,” but her face was grim as she gave George a quick nod toward the hallway. She stood with Bella in her arms. “Since you’re here, George, could you help me select a book for Henry in the library? He finished the last one.” 

“I have not!” Henry objected through a mouthful of food. 

“You’re nearly done, and chew with your mouth closed, darling.” Isabella removed to the hallway, and George followed her. 

As soon as they were out of earshot of Mr. Woodhouse, Isabella whirled toward him. “You’ve heard the news?” 

George cocked his head. “What news?” 

“The news about Mrs. Weston?” Isabella pursed her lips impatiently, evoking her sister’s usual exasperation with him, “Surely that’s why you’ve rushed here this morning looking for Emma?” 

George opened his mouth, hoping an appropriate explanation would present itself, but he could offer no rational reason for his presence. Isabella watched him struggle to answer for a few seconds, a little smile of amusement forming, but finally took mercy on her brother-in-law. 

She straightened her features and stated soberly, “Emma was called to Mrs. Weston’s bedside urgently. Mrs. Weston is in labor and the baby is in the breech position. It can take many hands to support a breech birth or to try to turn the baby. I was hoping you’d arrived with news having seen Mr. Weston or one of his servants.” 

George paled. This was serious indeed. Isabella herself had survived a breech birth, with her son John, but had been a good deal younger than Mrs. Weston. “Should I go to Randalls? Perhaps I can be of assistance.” 

Isabella was pensive for a moment. “I think you might, if only for Mr. Weston’s sake. He must be beside himself with worry.” 

With a nod and a brief squeeze of Isabella’s hand, George was off. Luckily, Bessie had not even been tied and watered, and he was able to reach the road to Randalls in minutes.

Randalls felt quiet, too quiet, as he approached. He tied Bessie to the hitching post himself, and, as he had at Hartfield, let himself in through the front door. He knew that the staff would be solely occupied in caring for their mistress. 

Besides the sound of footfalls upstairs and the occasional slam of a door, Randalls was silent and empty. For a moment, George felt foolish. It was presumptuous to think he could be useful. He should have returned to Donwell and asked Mrs. Hodges to prepare a basket of cold cuts and bread for the weary family. But then, he heard a light step swiftly descending the stairs, and his worries faded as Emma herself appeared before him. 

_Later_ , he told himself, _later._ When Mrs. Weston was safe, he could indulge in a delayed appreciation of the vision she made as she rushed toward him. Her hair hung nearly loose around her shoulders, and her face broke into a smile of pure relief when she saw him in the foyer. In any other situation, it might have been impossible to resist sweeping her up, plopping her onto Bessie, and carrying her off to an isolated field somewhere. Completely unbidden, he reached out to her, and she ran nearly into his arms, but stopped just short. She took his outstretched hand instead.  
  
“I thought I saw you through the window. I am so grateful you are here. How did you—” 

“Isabella told me,” he absently tucked a yellow curl behind her ear, “When I arrived at Hartfield. I am sorry I was late, Emma. Please tell me how I can be of assistance now.” 

“The monthly nurse is here, as is Mr. Perry, but we have been unable to find Mrs. Bentley, the midwife! Mr. Weston cannot bear to leave his wife—and so we sent Thomas to wait for Mrs. Bentley at her home, but Mr. Perry believes she might be with her injured sister. I know you’ve just arrived, but—”  
  
“I will go,” he agreed immediately. He knew he should turn away at once to make quickly for the Evans’s cottage, the residence of the midwife’s sister, but it was proving quite difficult to remove himself from Emma’s side with so much unspoken. What could he possibly say in mere seconds that would convey the fullness of his heart, the earnestness of his intentions?

She took his hesitation for something altogether different. “Of course,” she said, and she dropped his hand as she contemplated, “How to describe where the Evans live...” She pressed her lips together in thought. 

Indeed, they were not in a place or circumstance in which they could talk as he wished to. Though he stood but a foot from Emma, he felt as though a chasm of questions and doubt had opened between them. He knew that his next words would only serve to widen that gap, but he also could not let her waste another second when she could return upstairs where she was most needed. 

“Along the old path that leads to the London road,” he stated, pointing in the eastern direction. “The thatched yellow house with the rose garden.”

Emma gasped softly, and her brow flew upward. “You know.” 

“Mr. Evans works in transport.” He felt himself hunch in apology. “I have consulted with him frequently over the recent harvest seasons.” 

They both fell silent. Emma worried her lip and lowered her gaze to her hands. He longed to take her in his arms, or to drop to his knees and beg for her hand, or to gently tilt her face upward to meet his eyes, or to do anything that would allow her to see into his heart. He nearly took her hand again, but a crash sounded upstairs, and he knew he could keep her no longer. 

“I will return with Mrs. Bentley, Emma.” 

She whispered her thanks and flew upwards toward the family rooms. George stalked out of the house, untied Bessie, and rode toward town at a desperate gallop. 

—

Mrs. Weston’s remarkably good spirits were still intact as Emma returned to the brightly lit and well-ventilated birthing chamber. Though Mr. Weston looked as though he might faint at any moment, his wife remained as hale and hearty as ever. Upon entering the room, Emma was amused to see that Mrs. Weston was reaching up to deftly dab the sweat from her husband’s brow. 

“You missed one of her pains, Emma,” Mr. Weston sighed as he took his wife’s hand. “It is terrible to see Anne in such torment. My dear, I don’t know how you yourself can bear it.” 

“We must soldier on, husband. We will soon have our reward,” his wife replied with a smile. 

Emma hoped she alone could detect the slight falter in Mrs. Weston’s otherwise sanguine look. Her former governess was always at her best with others in her charge, and so perhaps it was right that Mr. Weston was less a source of steady support than Emma privately thought a husband ought to be. 

“Was that Mr. Knightley, Emma?” Mrs. Weston asked as she took the mug of barley water from the monthly nurse. “Were you able to direct him to Mrs. Evans?” 

Emma moved toward the fire to help Mr. Perry who was making quick work of sanitizing the necessary instruments. “It was, yes, and I did. He seemed confident he could locate Mrs. Bentley there.” 

Mr. Weston frowned. “The poor man still seems a trifle addled. He was a bit overwhelmed by the crowd at Cole’s, and Mrs. Elton told me yesterday evening Knightley couldn’t even remember our Frank! Were you able to describe where the Evans live? It is a bit of a strange spot. Neither here nor there.” 

Emma tried to seem quite preoccupied with wrapping a pair of large forceps in clean cloth. “Mr. Knightley knew just where to go. I believe his memory must be improving.” 

“Why that is excellent news, Emma,” Mrs. Weston proclaimed. Though the sly smile on her lips was hidden behind her mug, her eyes were crinkled with mischief. “I do so wonder what might have prompted its return.”

Emma said nothing and, just seconds later, any concerns regarding Mr. Knightley’s memory were chased away as another labor pain began for Mrs. Weston. In a quiet period after the anguish had passed, and once Mrs. Weston’s barley water had been replenished, Emma considered her interaction with the gentleman in the Weston’s foyer. 

She could not be certain if it were reality or her own fancy, but his blue eyes had seemed a shade darker, had they not? His visage, which only last night had seemed so open, and alive, and bright with possibility, had been closed and wary. There could be no doubt, she thought. His memory had returned entirely. Mr. Knightley would now be anchored by his knowledge of the last decade, a decade in which she’d proved herself to be an exceptionally prideful creature. 

The worries that she had pushed to the edges of her mind earlier in the morning began to force their way back to its center as she too uncovered memories recently laid away: Mr. Knightley’s appreciation of Harriet during their tete-a-tete at Donwell; how his voice had stretched thin under the weight of his disappointment at Box Hill; his grave, hesitant looks the day he left for London—not very unlike his expression today. 

Emma straightened, determined to banish such low thoughts in the face of what surely would be an arduous day. She hastily repinned her hair and tucked in the loose pieces. For just one moment, she allowed herself to remember the warmth of his fingers at her temple as he had gently secured a loose curl behind the curve of her ear, and something close to hope pulled at Emma’s chest. But as Mrs. Weston’s low groan of distress grew loud, Emma closed her mind to any thoughts that would take her beyond the walls of the birthing room. Her mind would be clear for there was work to be done.


	16. Chapter XVI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the long wait, friends! I actually had a bit of trouble getting the chapter to come together-- should it have been two chapters? Is the pacing a bit off?-- but I think I am happy with where it landed. I hope it still rings true for all of you. (And of course my internet went on the fritz as I tried to post this. Hopefully not a sign it's not ready!)
> 
> I am very excited for the two chapters of love and fluff to follow, and thank you as always for your wonderful, wonderful feedback and thoughts.

George and Bessie led the parade with the Evans’s old horse and cart following close behind with Mrs. Bentley in tow. Bessie’s swift trot seemed triumphant as they made their way toward Randalls—as if she knew an important objective had been achieved. She swirled her large head back every so often to assure herself that her charge had not been waylaid. Her master, his mouth set in a grim line, patted her neck and urged her forward. 

George did not know what would await them at Randalls. He could only hope they would arrive in time. And if they were too late, he hoped the monthly nurse and Mr. Perry had been able to cope without Mrs. Bentley’s assistance. He was keenly aware they could not deliver the midwife soon enough. 

Finally, the party passed through the sweep gate and down the drive where Weston and one of the footmen awaited them. George leapt down from his horse and assisted Mrs. Bentley from her cart. “Mr. Weston, you must forgive me,” Mrs. Bentley begged, red-faced from the journey, “I told Mr. Bentley, he must be home this morning to receive any urgent callers such as yourself, but I suppose he had to slip off to the market when he heard the price of wheat on the offing. Always a nose for a deal, my sir. He’ll get no peace from me for days I assure you—”

“It is no matter, Mrs. Bentley,” Weston’s easy smile was strained, “You are just in time.”

Mr. Weston led the way into the house and showed Mrs. Bentley upstairs to the birthing room. George followed, but waited in the front parlor with the vague hope that Emma might appear downstairs as she had earlier. He settled in a chair by the window, and his eyes fluttered closed in the bright sunlight. How beautiful she had looked with her hair loose earlier, and how wonderful her curls had felt between his fingertips. Though a long conversation would be, as yet, impossible, surely there was a particular gesture he might expect? One that would provide them both with much needed mutual assurance of affection, and one that would serve as an appropriate expression of gratitude for his efforts? When he heard footsteps on the front stairwell, he leapt to his feet.

“Knightley!” Weston entered the parlor with an exhausted sigh. “Thank you for finding Mrs. Bentley and accompanying her to Randalls. Mrs. Weston is much relieved to have her present, though the good woman has chased me out of the room.”

George bowed. “It was no trouble. And how is Mrs. Weston progressing?” 

“As well as can be expected. Nerves of steel, my wife. You’ve heard, I assume, the baby is not optimally positioned? The monthly nurse and Perry have cautioned that such a birth must be taken quite slowly, and I believe that is challenging for Anne. But, I apologize, Knightley. Bachelors are not for such talk.” Weston turned to the nearby sideboard and lifted a glass decanter. “I know it is quite early in the day, but, you understand. And I hope you’ll join me?” George frowned, but nodded his assent. “I should like to hear of your wife’s condition, Weston. I’m not some puppyish fellow, skittish of the natural way of things. Mrs. Weston has long been my friend. If there is trouble, I hope you know you may confide in me.” 

“Of course, Knightley, I should not underestimate your tolerance for domestic matters.” Weston handed him a glass half-filled with something mysterious and amber in color. “And Emma tells me you were present when Mrs. Knightley gave birth to little John—which, by the by, you may remember now! I hear reports your memory has improved.”

George took a sip of Weston’s cordial, fought the urge to cough, and confirmed, “Yes, though I am not sure my mind is at its full strength—”

Weston laughed, “Who can ever be sure of that?” He raised his glass. “To your memories returned!” 

George touched his glass to his friend’s and nodded toward the birthing room upstairs, “And to even better ones to come.” 

Mr. Knightley stayed with Weston for the better part of an hour until the poor man’s anxiety reached a point at which inaction could no longer be tolerated. He set off to cajole Mrs. Bentley into allowing him back into the birthing room, and George returned to Hartfield. His arrival there could not have been better timed. Emma’s absence could no longer be blithely explained away—one can only collect herbs in the garden for so long—and Mr. Woodhouse had finally learned of “Poor Miss Taylor’s” imminent confinement. 

“I am happy to report, Mrs. Weston is doing very well, sir. She is in the capable hands of Mrs. Bentley, Emma, and Mr. Perry himself!” 

The gentleman was momentarily mollified. If Perry were present, perhaps the situation could be considered somewhat managed. “And Emma is well, Mr. Knightley? I do not understand why she must be there. I expect she will be very frightened.” 

“I saw her but briefly, but Emma was perfectly well and in excellent spirits. Who could we trust more than Emma to cheer and encourage her friend?” 

“Very true, Mr. Knightley. There is no one more capable of brightening a room.” 

“I could not agree more, sir.” George smiled as he handed Mr. Woodhouse his weak tea with lemon. John, who was sitting nearby with his face hidden behind his newspaper, lifted an eyebrow, but said nothing. 

Because the John Knightleys were due to return to London in just two days, George was determined to make the most of his time with the children. Though his nieces and nephews had barely felt the impact of his memory loss—surely they could sense how dearly he loved them regardless—John and Henry were pleased their uncle now remembered the obscure rules they applied to checkers, and Bella and George were delighted to be tossed into the air in the fashion they were used to. Though his thoughts and heart were with Randalls, George drew comfort from the children and resolved to let their gaiety become his own. 

—

George remained at Hartfield through the afternoon and much of the evening, but Emma did not return. The uncertainty surrounding Mrs. Weston’s fate bore heavily on them all. After the children went to bed, George, John, and Isabella did their best to keep Mr. Woodhouse’s worries at bay. George played more than three rounds of backgammon with the older gentleman, and John, in a display of true devotion that surprised both his wife and brother, willingly participated in a lengthy discussion of Mr. Perry’s dietary recommendations. Finally, near eleven o’clock in the evening, Mr. Woodhouse retired and was helped to his room. It was shortly after that Isabella and John declared their intention to follow him upstairs.

“You may stay as long as you wish, Mr. Knightley,” Isabella assured him as she straightened the blankets her father had left behind. “You may even make use of one of the family rooms.” 

John scoffed at what he surely thought was an improper and unnecessary offer of hospitality, but George put up a hand to stifle his brother’s anticipated protests.

“Thank you, Isabella. There is no need. I will be gone the minute Bessie is readied.” 

But George had no opportunity to make the call for his horse. The groan of the front door was heard, and Emma’s voice echoed down the corridor. Both John and Isabella whipped around to witness George’s reaction. He would have found it comical were he not so unsettled himself.

It was the first intimation of her being returned from Randalls. He had been thinking of her the moment before as unquestionably two miles distant. There was time only for the quickest arrangement of mind. He must endeavor to be collected and calm. It did not seem entirely proper to violently open one’s heart to another at this late hour while her father slept upstairs. 

Emma was shown to the drawing room before George was able to determine any course forward. As she handed James her bonnet and shawl, he briefly wondered how it was possible to be completely torn asunder by the beauty of a person you saw nearly everyday. But, beyond her loveliness, she looked exhausted. Her hair was tucked haphazardly into a lopsided chignon, her dress was rumpled, and her cheeks were colorless. 

Emma looked between the three Knightleys and, observing their fretful expressions, her face broke into a placating grin. “Mrs. Weston and her daughter are safe and healthy. Baby Anna is beautiful. And Mrs. Bentley said she had never seen a more patient and tenacious mother.” 

“But we knew that already, didn’t we?” Isabella cried, “Oh, Emma!” She flew to Emma and embraced her. Their joy was palpable; the woman who had been nothing less than a mother to them both was safe, well, and a mother once more. 

Isabella stepped back to smile at her sister when she jolted, as if remembering an urgent task. “John!” She turned abruptly to her husband. “It is quite late, and we should allow Emma to rest, should we not? She will be more amenable to giving us all the particulars tomorrow.”

John examined his wife. “And what if I should wish to hear the particulars tonight?” 

Isabella frowned. “Do not be boarish, husband. Emma must be extremely fatigued.” 

John’s face was impassive. “I see, my dear. And are you going to send George to bed as well?” 

“I have command over one Knightley brother only. George can do what he likes,” Isabella replied brightly. “Come, dearest. We will trouble my sister no longer.”

Isabella squeezed Emma’s hand and nodded to George as she departed. Perhaps it was a trick of the firelight, but George could have sworn she winked at him. John bowed to Emma, gave his brother a stern look usually reserved for his children, and followed his wife out of the drawing room.

Quite suddenly, George and Emma found themselves alone. Though it was hardly over a day since their embrace in the garden, they eyed each other warily from across the room, unable to yield their respective positions. Finally, Emma, ever the excellent hostess, gestured for George to take his usual chair. He stiffly thanked her as she perched on the cushion farthest from him on the settee. She sat straight-backed, her satin-covered feet tucked elegantly beneath her and her expression blank as she stared into the crackling fire. 

George knew there was much they must explain and interrogate, but he was more interested in doing what he could to soothe her. With his memories mostly restored, he knew Emma’s dear mien better than he knew his own. He could see plainly, as tired as she must be, she was becoming increasingly agitated with each moment. The line of her jaw grew tighter still, and, though her entwined hands seemed to rest placidly in her lap, he could see how her fingers worked and worried against one another.

He leaned forward, reaching for the tray to pour her a cup of tea, when she spoke without warning. 

“Mr. Knightley,” she began, her eyes shining in the firelight, “Before you say anything, please allow me to assure you, I release you from any expectations concerning our future.” 

He was utterly confounded. “You release me?” 

“Yes,” Emma said, straightening the folds of her skirt in order to avoid his stare. “You remember your past now, and mine, do you not? Or was the location of the Evans’s cottage so particular a memory?”

He could see the direction of her thoughts, and he did not like it. “I do remember, but—”

“And when you offered—” she hesitated with a sigh, “—your very kind _attentions_ at Mr. Cole’s party, you were not aware that you were entangling yourself with such a flawed, vapid creature.” 

“Emma—”

“Please, Mr. Knightley. Do not protest at my characterization. I know I am not so totally without merit, but as you may now access the complete record of my foibles, you must surely see the truth in it.”

He moved to sit next to her on the settee, unable to muster a verbal response to such unjust self-censure. His first thought was to chide her for spouting utter nonsense, but—upon consideration—that was perhaps not the best approach.

Tears stained the silk of her frock as she began to cry in earnest. “There are certainly—” she swallowed a sob, “much more worthy objects than I, more deserving of your love—as I am sure you now realize.” She looked up at him, her lips quivering as she spoke, “And though perhaps your way forward may be somewhat less smooth than it might have been before your fall, if there is a young woman you wish to—Well, I hope you know I would never stand in the way of your happiness.” 

She stood and marched toward the door. Though George felt deeply distraught at Emma’s grief and heartbreak, his face only reflected his severe incredulity. He blinked in disbelief, his mouth agape. What on earth was she speaking of? She had nearly exited the room before he had recovered sufficiently to call after her.

“Emma!” he stood from the settee and chased her retreating form. Catching her arm, he spun her around. Her eyes were wide and shining. He took her hand in his and lifted it to his chest, pulling her close to him. 

“My Emma,” he began brushing his thumb across the back of her hand, “You seem to be laboring under the impression that I am capable of loving anyone other than yourself. Please allow me to disabuse you of that notion. I am in love with you. I have, I believe, been in love with you for some time. And I am afraid I will be in love with you for the rest of my life.”

Emma cocked her head to one side in puzzlement. George considered kissing away the worry lines that appeared between her brows, but resisted the urge for now. 

“But,” Emma objected, “You remember everything now—and everyone. You remember my treatment of Robert Martin, my ridiculous flirtation—and my horrid behavior at Box Hill—” 

George sighed, his mouth pressed into a line. “Are you really trying to argue away my love for you?”

She choked out a bitter laugh. “It would be best to forgo such efforts, I suppose?” 

He nodded and squeezed her fingers reassuringly. “What I remember is being so simultaneously vexed and enchanted by you, I could hardly see past my own nose. I remember lecturing you—repeatedly—though I had little right to do so. I remember my anger at Box Hill, which I knew instantly was a mere byproduct of my jealousy and yearning for you.”   
  
She was smiling a little now, but there was more still he must own to. “I also remember flirting with you shamelessly in London—without, I should add, even an inkling of your identity. I knew only you were the most captivating person I had ever met. And when I did realize who you were, I boldly professed to John my intention to court you with the hope you might return my feelings. And of course—with a small degree of contrition that is quite overwhelmed by a much larger sense of rapture—I recall my very _forward_ manner in the Coles’ garden.”   
  
“You told John you were going to court me?” She was fully beaming as he reached up to caress her cheek.  
  
“Yes, I did. And won’t he be astonished when I tell him it worked!” He raised an eyebrow. “I suppose it was my more unencumbered behavior—after my fall—that won you?” he asked with a dry chuckle.

Her features transformed, and she grimaced at his words. “No, Mr. Knightley, it decidedly was not.” 

He dropped her hand at once as all of the color drained from his face. Such arrogance! Boasting of having “won” her when she herself had confirmed nothing of the kind. He was no less presumptuous, no less conceited than he had been a decade ago. What foolish, _foolish_ words—

Relief washed over him as she reached out to catch his wrist, bringing him near to her again. “I only meant that I was already yours before your fall. It was not the flirtation or your courtship that made me love you—though I would not discourage such manners in the future.” She laughed, “I rather think it was the scolding.” 

He could feel himself blush a little at her implicit confession, unequal to any task other than gazing at her. Her tears of distress had turned to happy ones, and her lips parted as he softly tugged at the blonde tendrils that framed her face. His fair-haired lady. 

“Mr. Knightley,” she said as her smile bent into her usual impertinent smirk, “Though wholly unnecessary to the success of your suit, I will admit, I found your behavior, as you call it, in the Coles’ garden to be very persuasive.” 

“Did you?” He raised his eyebrows and bit back a rather smug grin. “And yet, my Emma, I think you were not yet fully convinced of the veracity of my intentions.” 

“Mm, I fear that both of us shall forever live in disbelief at being chosen by the other,” Emma replied, tilting her head to lean into his palm. 

“Then we must do what we can to assure ourselves of it.” 

Mr. Knightley ran his fingertips underneath her chin to turn her face to his, and, kissing her soundly, he made a case that he felt certain would brook no further argument. 


	17. Chapter XVII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentines Day, everyone! The last two chapters of plot took me weeks and weeks to write while this bit of fluff just flew from my fingers. For those of you who are dismayed by the initial fade-to-black, not to worry! This chapter is dedicated to the folks who asked for a "strawberry patch" extension to my, ahem, more mature fic, A Very Good List (while, hopefully keeping this T-rating appropriate, of course).
> 
> I thought about saving the vignette with Little John and Henry for a sort of "Donwell Drabbles" series I've thought about taking up after this is finished. Would that be interesting to others? 
> 
> Thank you all as always for your lovely comments. I could probably write a million more chapters of An Unexpected Blow, but I think Mr. Knightley and Emma deserve their happy ending. One more chapter to go.

By the time George arrived at Hartfield the following day—after finally making his belated visit to Abbey Mill Farm—the entire household was engaged in preparing the John Knightleys for travel. He wandered through the lower floor until he found Mr. Woodhouse in the library attempting to avoid the fray.

“Mr. Knightley! How good of you to come today. I don’t suppose you can convince your brother to allow Isabella and the children to stay? Do you not agree they are more healthful here at Hartfield? I believe our Bella has more color in her cheeks than she did when they arrived.”

George took a seat in the club chair across from the older gentleman, privately concluding that Bella’s color had more to do with the blankets Mr. Woodhouse heaped upon her than the environment. Still there was no harm in humoring the man. “And I believe I heard young John request a bowl of gruel from Serle yesterday at supper?”

“That he did!” Mr. Woodhouse agreed with his finger emphatically in the air. “Just a few more weeks in the country, I think, would do them all good. And Mr. John Knightley may stay too if he wishes. Perhaps he could continue to reside at Donwell where he is most comfortable?”

“As much as I wish I could support your cause, sir, I know John must return to London to work, and I know how much he would suffer without his wife and children near. We should be glad, Mr. Woodhouse, that there is so much love in their family. You would not wish for the John Knightleys to be less attached to one another?”

Mr. Woodhouse stared into the fire, pondering his answer. “I suppose not. Although I wish my Isabella need not return so hastily. The reverend says marriage and children are a blessing, but he is a young man, Knightley. He does not understand how it alters one’s family.”

His friend’s bleak mood did not bode well for George’s own wishes regarding matrimony. Though Emma was of age, George knew she would never agree to marry without her father’s consent. He thought perhaps a change of subject might be agreeable to them both, and was about to offer-up Robert Martin’s recent livestock acquisition as a topic, when a most welcome figure burst into the room.

“Father, John says you’ve given him permission to take your checkers set to London. Did you mean—Oh, hello.”

“Good morning, Emma.”

They locked eyes for several seconds longer than was appropriate, a smile creeping up both of their faces as they gazed at one another. Luckily, Mr. Woodhouse was not known for his powers of observation.

“Were you wondering which set, my dear? The one in the cherry box—with the other children's games in the drawing room.”

Emma blinked. “Oh, yes, thank you, Father. Perhaps Mr. Knightley could assist me. Some of the shelves are difficult to reach, and I suspect the set is quite hidden. I can’t imagine when I’ve last put eyes on it.”

“Of course!” George could not stand fast enough. He followed her out into the corridor, lagging just behind as she marched swiftly toward the drawing room. It was strange that she did not turn around, was it not? She might still be nervous—God knows he certainly was—regarding how they would behave around one another. But surely, if she would just stop and face him, they could—

In one motion, Emma did, indeed, turn to him with a mischievous grin, grasp one of his lapels, and pull him into the morning room, unused after the breakfast hour. George, always eager to be of assistance, maintained the presence of mind to quietly close the door behind them with one hand as the other settled at her waist. Though brief, the opportunity to review yesterday’s exchange, both literally and figuratively, was quite enough to reinstate in each a proper share of happiness of the evening before.

George stayed on through supper and was called upon, on this, the last evening of their visit, to tuck his eldest nephews into bed with an accompanying story. The request was made, as befitting his Christian name, that he should regale John and Henry with the tale of St. George and the Dragon. John handed George a storybook with a wry smile as each brother took a seat at the end of the boys’ respective beds.

“No, not the boring old book!” Henry sat forward emphatically. “We want the version you told us in London.”

John looked quizzically at his brother. “What is so distinctive about your version, George?”

Even in the dim room, John could see George’s color rise. “Very little, I’m sure. I just made a few modifications to make it more relatable—for the children of course.”

John arched an eyebrow. “Well then. Go ahead.”

The boys’ uncle began the tale of brave St. George, the king’s knight, whose village had been beset by an evil dragon—

“It’s not _his_ village,” John the elder interrupted. “St. George comes _upon_ the village in his travels.”

George gestured toward the children. “It raises the stakes of the story if it is _his_ village.”

John waved for George to carry on, and so he did. “St. George discovered that the dragon had captured a beautiful princess, the younger daughter of the richest man in the county, and he rushed to save her.”

“But, Uncle,” Henry interrupted, “Why was the princess even there? Princesses are well-guarded. Like Princess Charlotte!”

George frowned. “The townspeople sent the princess as a sacrifice. They had opened their homes to the dragon, they had fed the dragon their best turkeys and geese, they had played music for the dragon, and they had offered the dragon all their strawberries, but he was never satisfied.”

“But _why_ ,” the younger John whined, “Why would they offer the princess? Surely there was some other girl they could send.”

George bottled his impatience. His nephews truly were a barrister’s sons. “I suppose the townspeople thought the dragon would like the princess best, and that he’d take her and disappear, back into his cave.”

“His cave in Yorkshire!” Henry declared, pleased to remember a key detail from his uncle’s retelling.

“Yorkshire?” John inquired dryly.

George turned defiantly toward his brother. “Yes, Yorkshire. That is where the dragon in my story originates. Brave St. George must save the golden-haired princess from being dragged back to the dragon's lair Yorkshire and eaten alive!” he finished with a snarl toward his nephews. Little John and Henry shrieked gleefully and tossed their covers in the air.

Once the story was concluded and the boys were still, John and George blew out the candles, crept out of the bedroom, and descended the stairs.

John shot his brother a questioning look before they reached the drawing room. “Does not Mr. Churchill’s family hail from Yorkshire?”

George refused to meet his brother’s gaze. He shrugged innocently. “I’m afraid I am as yet unable to recall.”

—

Emma had over-scheduled her father’s social calendar directly following the John Knightley’s early morning departure. Mrs. and Miss Bates arrived at nine o’clock for breakfast and conversation, Mr. Perry appeared for lunch, and Mr. Elton was due for tea at half four. Emma felt that her presence at these visits would be less a comfort than a reminder of Isabella’s absence—the daughter present would always prompt the memory of the daughter lost—and therefore took the opportunity to visit Mrs. Goddard’s just after breakfast.

Who could question that preparation for and discussion of Harriet’s impending nuptials should occupy most of the day? And if such discussion should end shortly after twelve, as Emma expected it would, surely no one would think to seek out Miss Woodhouse among Donwell’s strawberry beds where she stopped for a period of respite on her way home.

“We have been blessed with a long warm season this year, Mr. Knightley,” Emma remarked as she plucked another fruit from the basket beside her. She leaned back against his brocade waistcoat as she took a bite. His jacket had been tossed to the side as they lounged in the hot summer sun. “These are still delicious, so sweet.”

“Mmm,” Mr. Knightley agreed as he dragged the newly-bit edge of a strawberry down the base of her neck to her shoulder, his parted lips following in its wake. When he reached the line of her collar, she felt the quick, cool dart of his tongue against her skin and nearly shrieked in response.

“George Knightley!” She tried to look stern as she turned toward him, but his wicked smile was infectious. “You assured me that with your memories returned, your gentlemanly propriety would as well.”

He smirked as he tossed the end of the strawberry away. “I suppose Dr. Werner warned us that inconsistencies in my memory might remain for some time.” Emma rolled her eyes at the smug angle of his mouth, and he chuckled, gathering her close to him again.

He did not often grin widely, with his teeth showing. It gave him an almost wolfish quality that unsettled Emma in the most extraordinary way. She had not yet summoned the courage to initiate a kiss herself, but she had grown quite good at wordlessly requesting the gesture. She tilted her head just so and fixed him with an expectant look, her eyes flicking downward toward his smile. It was advantageous, Emma thought, as his nose touched to hers, to be in love with someone who knew you so well. Very little needed to be said, and therefore, one’s lips could be put to far better use.

Mr. Knightley apparently had his own ideas regarding the most constructive use of his lips. His mouth slid from hers and cut a leisurely path across her jaw and down her throat, his light stubble gently tickling her. His tongue, which just moments before had carefully grazed her shoulder, had lost its former timidity as he thoroughly explored the contours of her collarbone. The silk of her dress was pulled taught as his fingers spread across her ribs.

She sighed, threading her hands through his hair and drawing him into her. He was encouraged by her enthusiasm, and his teeth grazed the tendons of her neck as she unwittingly arched her back.

“Emma,” he practically moaned into her clavicle, sending vibrations up and down her spine.

A cloud moved to block the sun, and Emma was brought back to consciousness by the rush of cool air that accompanied it.

“Mr. Knightley,” she whispered. She tilted her head back toward Donwell Abbey in a half-hearted attempt to remind him of their proximity to his estate and his servants. This posture, however, merely provided him access to the sensitive hollow just behind her ear, new territory he proceeded to claim as he tightened his hold around her waist.

“Mr. _Knightley._ ” She had not meant for his name to sound so wanton, but the attentions he paid to her earlobe had left her quite undone. She closed her eyes and tried to renew possession of her senses. “What if someone sees us?”

The sound his lips made as they dislodged from her skin was positively indecent, and Emma had to bite the inside of her cheek to prevent herself from responding in kind. Mr. Knightley raised his head and fixed her with a look so familiar—his brow lifted, his mouth quirked, a potent mixture of amusement, annoyance, and begrudging affection—she could hardly believe that moments ago this same man had been embracing her with wild abandon.

“Well then, I suppose you’d have to marry me,” he said plainly. His eyes narrowed slightly, a challenge.

Emma’s gaze faltered and fell to her lap. Marriage had been lingering in the periphery of all of their conversations for two days. She had felt its presence—lurking between the sweet nothings and assurances they had desperately exchanged—and had dreaded the inevitable disruption of their happiness its discussion would engender. What could she say? She loved him, of course, but any change in her condition would be impossible as long as her father were alive. She had even wept over the idea of it, as a sin of thought.

He tucked the crook of his pointer finger beneath her chin and ducked his head, forcing her to meet his eyes. He said nothing, only gently caressed her lips with the pad of his thumb. He knew exactly what objection she would raise and was waiting patiently for her to voice it.

“You must know,” she stated as evenly as she could, “I could never leave him.”

He traced the corner of her mouth. “Your father.” She nodded, and to her surprise, he smiled softly. “I have been walking away from William Larkins all morning to give the matter some consideration, and I believe I have discovered a solution amenable to all.”

Emma steeled herself, ready to protest, but he pressed his thumb— stationed all-too conveniently near—to her lips to silence her. She glared in frustration.

He answered with a chiding raised eyebrow. “You will listen, dearest, and then you may respond.” As she did not attempt to speak again, his thumb resumed its loving ministrations as he explained, “Your father cannot remove to Donwell, therefore you cannot remove to Donwell, and therefore—” He bent toward her. “—I shall remove to Hartfield.”

He pressed a kiss to her cheek with a flourish and sat back, his satisfaction manifest, as if he had solved their present quandary and the conflict in France in one fell swoop.

For what felt like the twentieth time in three days, Emma was agog with bewilderment. “You will live at Hartfield? But what of Donwell?”

For the first time a crack appeared in his otherwise unflappable demeanor. He frowned and hesitated. “I shall remain Donwell’s master, but my mornings, evenings, and nights will be yours.” He reached forward and cautiously lifted her hand which had been resting on the blanket between them. “If you’ll have me.”

She stared at Mr. Knightley’s dear face—so vulnerable as he looked! Her mind quickly calculated the enormity of his sacrifice: The loss of independence of hours and habits, the constant company and complaints of her father, not to mention the inconvenience of managing Donwell from near to two miles away.

She took a deep breath in a somewhat futile attempt to keep her composure. “Donwell should have a mistress. It is the parish seat. You are a magistrate. You deserve a wife who will support you in your duties, who will be a partner, who will make Donwell Abbey a home. Mr. Knightley, you are too good, too noble—”

“Mmm, yes.” He agreed. He looked up from his study of her hand in his, and that challenging edge had returned to his aspect. “I suppose I am.”

Emma’s brows knit together at his quick acquiescence, and she couldn’t help but pout. She was startled when Mr. Knightley laughed, again deploying his wolfish smile.

“You have mentioned several times what you believe I deserve, Emma. But, as I am so very _good_ and so very _noble_ , do you know what I think I deserve? Hm?” He used their joined hands to pull her toward him until she was nearly in his lap. He bent his neck, curling around her body until his breath was hot on her ear. “I think I deserve _whatever I want_.”

His lips met the hinge of her jaw, but Emma placed a hand on his chest to push him back.

“And I suppose I fall under the illustrious category of ‘whatever?’”

He had the courtesy to look a bit sheepish. “If it is a comfort to you, Emma, you are the only object on the list.”

She considered, and with a slight angle of her head, she granted him permission to resume his amorous endeavors.

As they proceeded, she contemplated this proposal of his, this plan of marrying and continuing at Hartfield. The more she thought of it, the more pleasing it became. His evils seemed to lessen, her own advantages might increase, and their mutual good would outweigh every drawback. Though she would give no definitive answer, Mr. Knightley extracted—using, it must be said, rather nefarious means—a promise from her to think of it. Moreover, she pretty nearly promised to think of it with the intention of finding it a very good scheme.

All too soon, the sun began to hang lower in the sky, disappearing behind Donwell’s lofty roofline. Mr. Woodhouse would be expecting his daughter well before supper was served and his final visitor of the day, Mr. Knightley, just after. They folded the blanket and packed the picnic basket as they prepared to—albeit very temporarily—part. Emma observed with affection as he shrugged back into his tailcoat and straightened his cravat, once again assuming the mantle of George Knightley, gentleman farmer. Sensing her scrutiny, he half-smiled, reached for her hand, and placed a chaste kiss on her knuckles.

Her mind was taken back to a month previous when she had found him in the drawing room readying to leave for London. He had taken her hand—as he had just now—pressed it, and was certainly on the point of carrying it to his lips when, for some fancy or other, he had let it go. It had been before she gained awareness of her love for him, before his fall, before she had been capable of entertaining the notion that she might soon become Mrs. Knightley. She had felt only that he would have judged better if he had not stopped.

“Mr. Knightley,” she began abruptly, before he had the opportunity to depart, “Why did you go to London?”

His brow furrowed, as if it still took some effort to sift through those memories he so recently found. After a moment, the corner of his mouth lifted. He chuckled a little as he answered, “I went to London, dear Emma, to try to forget you.”

She blinked in surprise, wrinkling her nose. “What?”

He rocked back on the heels of his boots. “I was so deeply in love with you and so convinced you were to marry another, I thought it would be best if I removed myself from your society and, indeed, tried not to think of you at all.”

“And were your efforts successful?” Emma pursed her lips. She did not like the idea of Mr. Knightley attempting to fall out of love with her.

He frowned in thought. “Perhaps not in the way I expected, but all-in-all, seeing as I managed to completely obliterate my memories of you, I’d wager I made a fairly good go of it.”

He could no longer repress his mirth. She thwacked him across the shoulder with her ridicule. “You horrible man!”

He grabbed for her, and she tried to—playfully—squirm away. Finally, she ceased her false attempts at resistance and settled in his arms, her hands resting on his lapels.

He brought his forehead to hers. “It was utter folly to think that my brother and your sister’s household would provide any respite. Their domestic happiness served only to remind me daily of what I would never have. When Mr. Weston wrote to me, I thought only of your heartbreak. I tried to rush back, not even a storm could stop me, and I—”

“You fell,” she supplied the end.

“Yes. I fell,” he concluded with a breathy laugh.

Emma slid her hands up his chest and around his neck. “Mr. Knightley,” she raised an eyebrow in what she hoped was a commanding fashion, not dissimilar to the look he often gave her, “You could never forget me. Not really.”

He sighed and wrapped his arms about her still tighter, anchoring her to him as if afraid she might drift away. Then he tilted his head just so and fixed her with an expectant look, his eyes flicking downward toward her smile. And Emma knew just what he was asking.


	18. Chapter XVIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's very bittersweet to post this last chapter, and I am sorry for the delay! I had trouble deciding how I wanted to close things up, gave myself a week to think about it, and then ended up having, perhaps, a few too many ideas-- resulting in this exceedingly long chapter. 
> 
> As always, the best part about writing this story has been sharing it with you all and getting your wonderful comments and thoughts. In an isolating time, it has been a real joy to connect with others who care as much about this fictional world as I do.

“Who do you suppose has heard our secret, dearest?” 

Mr. Knightley slipped Emma’s arm through his as they ambled toward Highbury. He smiled down at her, now officially his betrothed, as he answered, “I believe to term it as such is inaccurate. We have passed well beyond _secret_ , into _gossip_ , and shall shortly become _news._ ” 

She rolled her eyes with a smirk. “You do always find a way to correct me.” They walked on, and she leaned into him conspiratorially. “Perhaps I shall ask a different question then. Who do you believe is the most pleased?” 

George raised an eyebrow. “Besides myself?” 

“Yes,” Emma returned impatiently, “Besides yourself, and excepting me too, of course.” A lovely blush rose on her cheeks as she emphasized, “I am _most_ pleased.” 

George considered veering into the woodland that lined their path to explore this point further, but thought better of it for now. There would plenty of opportunities to _detour_ —as John had once so aptly put it—after they were married. 

“Mrs. Weston,” he concluded, “Followed closely by her husband who I am sure is, in equal measure, both very happy for us as well as overjoyed to have a bit of intelligence he can carry into town.” 

“What about Isabella and John?”

“I believe they are quite pleased, albeit with themselves,” George stated dryly. “I could practically conjure John’s smug look through his handwriting when he wrote to congratulate us.” 

They walked on in companionable silence for some minutes, and George was content to simply revel in her nearness, when he began to sense a burgeoning storm coming over his bride-elect. Her footsteps slowed, her head sunk, the weight on his arm became a little heavier. 

He stopped and tilted his head for a better view of her face. “You are thinking of a person quite _displeased_ with our news.” 

Emma nodded, stepping into his arms for comfort. Her father could not have been more shocked when he was informed their intention to marry. When John and Isabella had made their similar pronouncement, it had seemed to Mr. Woodhouse like the whimsy of children—irrational and ill-advised, but he supposed it must be borne. But for his Emma, aided and encouraged by sensible Mr. Knightley, to make the same gross error! They were aware, were they not, that marriage produced children? And children, inevitably, produced disease and danger—and risk! Mr. Woodhouse was as fond of risk as he was of cake. That is to say, he was not fond of it at all. 

Mr. Knightley’s proposal of living together at Hartfield was of small comfort to Mr. Woodhouse. Despite his idiosyncrasies, he was not a man given to suspicion of others, and he knew that Mr. Knightley’s offer was a selfless one. However, they saw Mr. Knightley everyday as it was, did they not? And he did not see why a change in his daughter’s name and circumstances would be necessary to further anyone’s happiness. 

George rested his chin gently on the top of Emma’s head, careful not to disturb any pins, as he held her tightly. “Your father will be persuaded, Emma.” He felt her sigh against his chest. Indeed, George was forming plan for convincing Mr. Woodhouse. But until it could be enacted, perhaps Emma could be distracted from her low mood. “Come, my love, let us think of others. We must have been the evening wonder in many households yesterday. Who do you think was the most astonished by our engagement?”

“Mrs. Elton!” Emma froze in his arms. 

George laughed, “Yes, of course, but—” 

“No, Mr. Knightley!” Emma took a forceful step back and grabbed his hand, pulling him toward the thicket. “She is coming!” 

Though confused why such action was necessary, George allowed himself to be pushed some four yards off the path and shoved behind a large tree. He was quite enjoying being manhandled by his betrothed and, despite seeing her distress, failed to prevent a lazy smile from spreading across his face as Emma pressed him against the bark, holding him in place. Unable to resist given their respective positions, he bent his head to kiss her.  
  
She quickly brought her index finger between them and pressed it to his parted lips. “If Mrs. Elton finds us alone together—” she whispered urgently, “Whether on the path or, worse, _off_ —all of Highbury shall hear how I trapped you with my feminine wiles and bold behavior.” 

Quick footfalls and the unmistakable, high-pitched drone of tittle-tattle could be heard as Mrs. Elton and her companion neared. Beneath Mrs. Elton’s theatrical shrieks, he could just identify Mrs. Cole’s warm, Cornish tone. 

“If you’ll pardon me for saying so, Mrs. Elton, I am not certain I agree. The match seems well-approved by all of Highbury. And did you not see how sweetly they looked at one another during the Martins’ we—”

“Oh, I did not attend _that_ , of course,” Mrs. Elton sniffed loudly. “And I do not know who you mean by 'all of Highbury.' Everyone I know seems quite bemused by the whole ordeal. I think his mind must still be addled! My _caro sposo_ professes to believe Knightley’s memory has returned—and you know, Mrs. Cole, that I never contradict my husband—but the man must still be vulnerable to the very sort of trickery Miss Woodhouse so frequently deploys!” 

George watched with some amusement as Emma’s face turned bright pink with rage. 

“Trickery?” Mrs. Cole, at least, sounded affronted. “My dear Mrs. Elton, you should not be so ungenerous. Miss Woodhouse is an attractive, wealthy young woman. Surely, little else is needed to attract a suitor. Nothing duplicitous as you imply—”

“Knightley,” Mrs. Elton began loftily, as if invoking a saint, “could never be captured by a mere pretty face. He values a woman of substance, of true wit. How could he be so taken in? And such a shocking plan—this removal to Hartfield! A family near Maple Grove tried it to the misery of all.”

If Mrs. Cole voiced any further defense of Miss Woodhouse, George was unable to hear it. The two women and their conversation disappeared around a bend in the path. Emma stood stock still, starting straight ahead at the bottom of his chin, very nearly vibrating with anger. George was quite certain that in the next moment she would either scream or sob, and he set to work quickly to deflect such an outburst. 

“Emma, my darling, I would like to make one thing abundantly plain.” 

She looked up at him, her expression still blank, though he thought he spotted a tear hovering near the corner of eye.

“I am not addled or taken-in. I was not captured by any witchcraft or trickery.” 

He raised his hand to stroke her cheekbone, leaving his thumb to linger at the corner of her mouth. She leaned into his touch, smiling softly with relief. He returned her gaze intently, his mouth pressed into its customary line, as he confessed with the all the solemnity he could muster: 

“I am simply after your money, of course.” 

Emma’s mouth fell open in shock before she burst out in laughter. George too could no longer maintain his sober mien as he posited with a chuckle, “Or perhaps I was overcome by your youth and beauty—” Emma was lost to a torrent of giggles, “—inescapably drawn to you like Odysseus to the sirens.” 

The tears in her eyes were borne of laughter as she answered, “Mrs. Elton should have offered to tie you to the mast.” 

He contemplated such a possibility as he guided her back toward the path, “There is still time to make that suggestion, Emma.” 

Emma glanced at him with a sly smirk. “Perhaps the next time you feel the need to correct me.” 

—

Following his return to London, John wrote to Dr. Werner, to express his gratitude for his counsel. George’s mind had returned exactly as he had predicted it would.

Upon reading the news, Dr. Werner immediately dashed off a letter to Mr. George Knightley, communicating his best wishes for his health and requesting an interview with Mr. Knightley when he next traveled to London. Dr. Werner was authoring a book on the mysterious condition of _Gedächtnisschwäche_ and would very much value a detailed account of how his most successful patient’s memory had returned. 

“I told him I did not plan to return to London in the very near future,” Mr. Knightley informed Emma.

Emma looked up from her needlework and scrutinized her betrothed. “So we are not going to London after the wedding?” 

George frowned. “Why would we go to London in autumn? It’s dreadfully wet.” 

Emma resumed her embroidery. “If you will not tell me where we shall travel after our wedding, then I am forced to speculate.” 

Another option would be to wait patiently and allow herself to be delighted by the surprise, but George decided to forgo this suggestion at the present. After all, their absence from Hartfield was hardly set. Emma and Mr. Knightley had privately fixed on October as the month they would marry—they had determined that the marriage ought to be concluded while John and Isabella were at Hartfield, to allow them a fortnight’s tour just after—But how was Mr. Woodhouse to be induced to consent? 

“I have invited Dr. Werner here,” George resumed, leaning back into his usual chair, “to visit Donwell. And, indeed, just today he has written to accept. He will arrive on Tuesday.”

Emma raised an eyebrow, her focus still on her work. “And I suppose you expect your dear friends, the Woodhouses, will host a dinner to welcome him?”

George bent to lift the edge of the coverlet Emma was employed in embellishing and ran his fingertips over the embroidered English Ivy lining the corner. “I am aware your time is very much in demand, my Emma, but perhaps you can spare an evening? I hope you are not rushing to complete your trousseau on my account.” 

Her eyes flashed with amusement. “Some might declare that I ought to have completed my trousseau many years ago as Miss Taylor urged me.”

“I am sure that a person who would make such unreasonable demands would not be well-favored to enjoy the fruits of your labor.” He leaned forward and reached for her hand to still her rapid motion. “It is beautiful work, Emma.” 

She colored, looking up at him from beneath her brow. “Very well, Mr. Knightley. We shall host your Dr. Werner on Tuesday. I dare say Papa will be most intrigued to meet him.” 

And, indeed, this was exactly as George hoped. Dr. Werner arrived promptly at three o’clock on Tuesday. Ever efficient, he was settled, rested, and dressed two hours later, anxious to accompany his host to see “Fraulein Woodhouse,” the woman who had been so instrumental in George's recovery.

“It was on this walk, Mr. Knightley, that you believe your remembrances began to truly return, yes?” he asked as they marched toward Hartfield.

George brought his hands together behind his back, his walking stick tucked beneath his arm, as he surveyed the vista before them. The day was fine and cool as Surrey slipped into autumn. In his view, the wheat fields had never looked more lush and golden, and the light breeze from the east had never felt more gentle in his hair. 

“My memories reconstituted much as you predicted, Dr. Werner—and in bits and pieces each day. But, yes, it was on this path that I first remembered something of importance—or _someone_ of importance, in this case.” He smiled at the doctor who returned the sentiment from beneath his heavy mustache.

“What about this walk, do you suppose, opened your mind?” Dr. Werner paused to wipe his eyeglasses on a bit of cloth. 

“I feel comfortable here,” George motioned to the open fields before them, “Free to do as I please, to let my thoughts wander. And, of course, for reasons now obvious to all, this route is a favorite of mine.” 

“I understand from your brother you are soon to give up Donwell for Hartfield.” Dr. Werner continued forward, prompting his host to do the same. “Are you not concerned you will feel uneasy in another man’s home? Your weakness of the mind could return if your conscious is not well-tended.” 

George couldn’t help but chuckle at the idea he would be so discomforted by his residence at Hartfield. He suspected John’s description of Mr. Woodhouse’s company had not been charitable. 

“I will make my home wherever Emma is, _Herr Doktor,_ ” George concluded with a sidelong glance at Werner, “As soon as her father will consent. Which reminds me, I have a small request of you.” 

Twenty minutes and a mile later, Mr. Knightley and Dr. Werner were welcomed to Hartfield by Mr. Woodhouse who was most enthusiastic to meet with a renown health professional—particularly a German one. He held the Prussian custom of pickling vegetables in high regard as he considered it “most helpful to the digestion.” 

Dr. Werner bowed gallantly to Emma as he entered the parlor, taking her hand warmly when it was offered. “I hear from Mr. Knightley that you are the cure, Miss Woodhouse,” he proclaimed with smile, “Perhaps I should retire and simply refer all my patients to Highbury.” 

George opened his mouth to protest, but Emma responded quickly, “I regret I will not be able to provide the same sort of treatment and care I showed Mr. Knightley to any others who may be similarly afflicted. You must continue with your work, Dr. Werner.”

“Emma takes such good care of everyone,” Mr. Woodhouse declared, oblivious as always to any additional implication in his daughter’s words, “And you would do well to recommend Highbury, sir! The air is cleaner and sweeter than elsewhere in England, and I daresay any man would benefit from being looked after by our Mr. Perry.” 

Serle prepared a rabbit stew recommended by Mr. Cox’s Austrian housekeeper, and Dr. Werner professed he had not tasted its likeness since he was a child. Mr. Woodhouse was delighted to have the opportunity to quiz his guest on the science of the mind, an area, he must acknowledge, where Perry’s vast knowledge fell short. 

“Can one improve one’s memory through diet, Dr. Werner? And what of environment? I do so worry about my daughter, Isabella, and her children in London. So far off from her family! And the air so very bad.” 

“I myself live in London, sir.” The doctor nodded his thanks as his dish was removed. “In fact, I live quite close to Mr. John Knightley and his family. I do not believe the air will harm or help in regards to one’s mind or memory—though I find it good enough myself. One’s brain is much like any other part of one’s person. The best way to preserve it is through regular exercise.” 

Dr. Werner took a long sip of his wine as he exchanged a meaningful glance with Mr. Knightley. Emma looked between them, puzzled. “Well, what sort of exercise?” 

“An excellent question, Miss Woodhouse!” Dr. Werner emphatically placed his glass on the table, but he turned to her father as he delivered his answer. “Reading, writing, and regular socialization are most critical for those suffering from weakness of the mind.” He sighed loudly as removed the napkin from his collar and folded it, placing it on the table with a flourish. “I do so worry about Mr. Knightley in that respect.” 

Mr. Woodhouse started, horrified. He careened toward Dr. Werner as he asked with urgency, “Worry about our Mr. Knightley? In what respect could you mean, sir? Surely Mr. Knightley could not suffer any sort of relapse?”

Emma watched her father’s agitation mount as he contemplated Mr. Knightley’s infirmity. She looked to Mr. Knightley, hoping he would reassure Mr. Woodhouse, but he merely smiled placidly at the assembled, relaxed into his chair, and gently swirled his snifter of after-dinner Madeira. 

It was only the second time since Mr. Knightley’s infamous fall that Mr. Woodhouse allowed himself to acknowledge that Mr. Knightley had experienced any illness or trouble. The older gentleman was fully dependent on the strength, resolution, and presence of his dear friend and neighbor. Any weakness of Mr. Knightley's mind or body could not be borne and must therefore be avoided at all costs. 

“He is so often in solitude at his estate,” Dr. Werner explicated, his brow knitted in deep concern, “Surely, in his isolation, there are days when Mr. Knightley speaks to no one at all. The lack of regular conversation may have ill-effects in the long term.” 

“ _Ill-effects_ ,” Mr. Woodhouse repeated, now white as a sheet. For some minutes, the only sound in the room was the clatter of plates as they were taken away. Dr. Werner fussed with his napkin, Mr. Knightley calmly sipped his wine, and Mr. Woodhouse stared blankly at his place setting as he reflect on his friend’s inevitable woes. Emma tried vainly to deliver a swift kick to Mr. Knightley’s shins under the table, but his legs were tucked securely beneath his chair as if he had anticipated her ire.

Finally, Mr. Woodhouse experienced a revelation. “My dear Emma, did you not propose a scheme through which Mr. Knightley would come to live here—with us?” 

Emma was incredulous. “Not a scheme, Papa. Mr. Knightley and I mean to marry, and he has generously offered to live here at Hartfield for our comfort.”

Mr. Woodhouse waved away this mention of matrimony as if it were of no importance. “Surely, Dr. Werner, if Mr. Knightley were to reside with us at Hartfield, he would experience adequate social exercise?” 

Dr. Werner eagerly agreed, “Indeed, he would!” 

“Then it is settled!” Mr. Woodhouse turned to George. “Mr. Knightley, you must remove to Hartfield at once for the sake of your health.” 

“I believe you are right, sir,” Mr. Knightley allowed smoothly, as if commenting on the weather. “I can arrange for my displacement by the second week in October, if that is amenable to you and to Emma.” 

“The sooner the better!” Mr. Woodhouse declared. The lady in question, from her end of the table, was determined to remain unimpressed by the delicate way in which the conversation had been undoubtedly managed. However she did acknowledge Dr. Werner’s effort on their behalf with a generous smile and a nod of thanks. Indeed, by the end of the evening, Mr. Woodhouse had even agreed to allow the couple a few week's absence after the wedding in order to further condition Mr. Knightley’s mind through the acquisition of new experiences. 

As Dr. Werner and George prepared to depart for Donwell, dear Mr. Woodhouse assured the doctor that he himself would take responsibility for Mr. Knightley’s continued recovery. “We will have the best rooms prepared at Hartfield posthaste!” 

“If I may be so bold as to make a request,” Mr. Knightley whispered in a low voice to Emma alone, “Perhaps you might consider the rooms adjacent to your own?” 

Emma arched an eyebrow. “To further your daily socialization?” 

“Indeed,” Mr. Knightley confirmed with a broad smile that his betrothed could not help, but echo. 

—

They were married just four weeks later. If anyone in attendance relayed a critique of the decor of the church and attire of the wedding party, Mr. Knightley and Emma remained blissfully unaware, primed, as they were, for the journey—both literal and figurative—on which they were about to embark. 

Mr. Knightley’s memory loss and subsequent recovery were heavily featured in Dr. Werner’s study of the illness becoming more commonly known as _Amnesia_ —though he did somewhat resent the adoption of the French medical term. Was not _Gedächtnisschwäche_ much more clear?

However, the doctor was not privy to the small impressions that failed to return to George’s mind. John was shocked to hear his brother profess that he had never been to Brighton though George had accompanied the John Knightleys there shortly after Henry was born. William Larkins found his master merrily riding south to visit Mr. Gibbons, a tenant whose farm was over a half mile east. And Emma herself discovered her husband’s greatest—and most predictable—memory lapse just one week after they returned from their tour of the eastern seaside. 

“Dearest,” Emma began as she entered Mr. Knightley’s study without so much as a knock, “Are you very occupied on Thursday? Frank is returning to Randalls this week, and I thought we might invite a few parties to dinner in his honor. The Bates, the Westons, and Miss Fairfax, of course.” 

Mr. Knightley looked up from his ledger, his face pinched in puzzlement. “Who is Frank?”

Emma blinked in surprise, but the corner of her mouth quirked as she protested, “You are joking, Mr. Knightley.” 

George shook his head, cheerful though his brow remained furrowed. “I assure you, I am not. Although I am very intrigued to understand the identity of this man whom my wife refers to by his Christian name. Some cousin of Mrs. Weston?” 

Emma set aside the small tremor of pleasure that ran through her when Mr. Knightley referred to her as his wife. She clarified, “Mr. Churchill. Frank Churchill. Mr. Weston’s son.” 

“Ah, I see.” Mr. Knightley frowned. “I’m not sure I ever knew what he was called by his intimates.”

“Of course you do—or perhaps you did!” Emma laughed at her husband’s aloof expression. “Although I am not altogether surprised that your memory continues to falter in matters related to Mr. Churchill.”

With a shrug, Mr. Knightley returned his gaze to his ledger. “I suppose it is of no consequence, Emma, as I do not expect we will meet often with the gentleman, and I shall continue to refer to him by his surname given the level of our acquaintance—” 

Emma’s pursed smile belied her amusement as she rounded the desk, pushed back her husband’s hunched shoulder, and slid into his lap.

“Mr. Knightley.” She purred the admonishment into his ear. 

“And I must say ‘Frank’ seems a bit wide of the mark in this case,” he continued more to himself than to anyone else, “I find very little to be honest or earnest or _frank_ about him.” 

Emma cupped her husband’s jaw, turning his face upward toward hers. “There is no need to be jealous of Mr. Churchill. And there never was. I have always been yours, as you well know.” 

Her lips brushed the worry lines between his brows and the faint scar at his temple, but could see he was not yet appeased. She ran her fingers through his hair until he closed his eyes and sighed deeply. Finally, with a growl of frustration, he caught her hand and brought it down to rest on his chest. 

“And yet, he is 'Frank,' and I remain ' _Mr._ Knightley.'”

She gave him an arch look, growing indignant with his childish resentment—most uncharacteristic of him! “I call you _George_ often enough!” 

Mr. Knightley could sense his wife’s patience waning and relented with a sheepish grin that turned wicked as he gathered her closer. “Only when I endeavor to ensure you are exclusively capable of monosyllabic words.” 

Emma bit her lip, delighted as she was with such surprising impertinence from her husband. She brought her forehead down to his, and her fingers crept toward the knot of his cravat. “Or whenever I wish you to, _George._ ” 

Mr. Knightley never would be able to commit Mr. Churchill’s Christian name to memory just as the trip to Brighton would never be remembered and George’s impulse would always be to follow the southern path to visit Mr. Gibbons. Other small lapses would be discovered, but his friends, family, and his darling Emma were always at hand to care for him and set him right. Such minor inconveniences could hardly be considered when contrasted with the otherwise perfect happiness of their life together at Hartfield. Indeed, when aggrieved with a particularly severe headache during a rainstorm—a reminder of that stormy day in London—Mr. Knightley was amazed to find that Mr. Woodhouse had always been right. A warm fire, a bowl of gruel, and the company of his wife were sufficient to remedy any possible ills. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all, and all my best. Stay healthy and well! And if you have any suggestions for another Emma-related story, I'd love to hear them!


End file.
